You Are My King
by Eurydice II of Macedon
Summary: The year is 1939, and at the start of a war that changes everything, seven magi will compete for the Holy Grail in the streets of Tokyo, Japan. One such is an old war veteran. Under his rule is the Arthurian knight Bedivere and, together, for the salvation of their souls, will they make their wishes reality, lest darkness swallow them whole.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _—Travel through the wood, across the field, and over that bloodsoaked hill until you are well beyond all three, whereupon there will be a deep lake—_

The holy sword slapping hard against his armored hip, Bedivere rode as fast as his already winded horse would carry him through the forest. Biting back tears, he apologized profusely to Dun Stallion for how hard he drove him onward, not expecting the majestic beast's forgiveness for he deserved none.

 _—I want you to throw my sword into this lake and give it back to the Lady who resides within its depths—_

Repeating Arturia's final request in his head over and over, he wished to take it all back, cursing himself for not heeding Morgana's words proven right.

 _—Once that is done, come back to me—_

Flying across the grisly aftermath of that bloodstained battlefield, he desperately tried to find some semblance of sanity in Arturia's words, knowing that his soldier's discipline told him what his mind refused to accept. Her words were final, the wound she suffered from fatal and, with that, the door that barred the truth was broken.

 _—This is my last request as your King—_

Everything fell to pieces.

If he hadn't betrayed her to begin with, then those words would never been said, the wound never inflicted. The tragedy this day was entirely his fault, and nothing he thought would change that.

 _—One day, my dear Griflet, even with your help in bringing to light the misfortunes unseen by her, my dear sister will fail to see that which is right before her eyes. Blinded by her chivalry, her belief that kingdom comes before king, her wicked day shall come. Her honor—that righteous pride she holds so close—will be her downfall. With it, so too shall everything she has sacrificed for crumble into ruin. As, though you act in part as her savior..._

Upon reaching the hill, Dun Stallion buckled underneath him and he was sent tumbling end over end to crash in a muddy, bloodied heap at its foot. The holy sword held tight in his grasp. Bedivere lay there in a sweat, breathing heavily, weeping silently for his companion. He prayed that Dun Stallion would be able to find peace, free of such a terrible handler. Using the holy sword to stand, it took all his effort to climb and come to the hill's top.

Passing the traitor impaled on spear and his brother with guts spilt, he shed more tears for them both and collapsed, exhausted. He stayed there atop the grime and blood and dirt of the battlefield, hand trembling as he cried, willpower all but spent, waiting for death. Only by gathering what only he had left—his loyalty to his King—did Bedivere stand back to his feet and continue onward.

Careful as he traversed the bodies of those fallen and ignored the pleas from those dying, it was a harrowing walk the rest of the way to the lake.

When he at last stood at its edge, Bedivere could do nothing except stare at the holy sword in a trance; its golden and jeweled hilt and the magic runes that ran up the length of its magnificent blade and seemed to glow like skyfire. Hearing the whisper of the fairies, ancient words of power and protection, he faltered in his devotion yet again.

Before him was once a lake of calm and serenity, one that he and his King had traveled over many times many years ago, before a thick, dark mist settled over its clear waters now blackened, obscuring what lay beyond.

To cast the sword to its depths forebode a fate he knew to be the end of all he held dear. For it to leave his hand would mean his treachery was absolute, and he wept again. This time, for Arturia. For promising to be by her side always, but, only growing farther apart, before doing what he should've all along.

… _so too will you also be her very undoing—_

Sobbing, he averted his eyes from the sight of all of Camelot's hopes and dreams sinking into the abyss, when something compelled him to witness what he at first shied away from. Even though he no longer had such a right. To his surprise, he bore witness to a heavenly-clad arm as it reached forth from the lake to take the sword in its hand and lower gently until both were gone. Immediately thereafter, the fog lifted from the waters' surface to reveal a place of splendor and beauty. With tears streaming down his face for an entirely different reason than before, he was in shock and awe. Though, the sudden joy that fluttered in his heart was short lived, for he realized that he'd made a terrible mistake. Not once, not twice, but, almost thrice.

With a renewed faith that carried him swiftly back, Bedivere wailed upon discovering Arturia lifeless against the tree trunk he'd laid her beside, and fell to his knees. It was too late. He pounded the ground in defeat and was ready to fall further into despair when another voice he knew well sang in his ears.

 _—It is not too late—_

Nimuë's voice, smooth and relaxed like the gentle waters of a flowing stream, splashed and echoed in his ears.

 _—Dry your tears, and see—_

He looked up and witnessed another miracle. Arturia's eyelashes— _they fluttered._ Incredulous, he sat there until Nimuë broke the spell.

 _—Go to her—_

"Your Majesty!" he cried, scrambling to Arturia's side. She still breathed, albeit faintly, and relief washed over Bedivere's wretched figure, as his King's eyelashes fluttered for a second time and her eyes opened slowly.

"... Bedivere…?" Arturia tried to rise, cringed, and weakly went to touch the part of her head where Mordred's blade bite into her skull.

The arm was eased back down and hand gently squeezed. "Don't try to move, your wound will reopen."

Soaked through the bandage covering her forehead and running down the left side of her face, it stopped bleeding thanks only to his ring—its gleaming green gem dim and healing properties forever sealed. Yet another beautiful gift sullied in his name, but, seeing the smile on his King's face again was well worth all the sins he bore.

Her left eye shut from the blood that was now a dry crust, Arturia, seemingly unable to hear him, said his name once more, "Bedivere…"

"Sire… I… I have done as you asked of me." He wasn't able to meet her open eye.

"I see… Be proud, for you have fulfilled your King's final request..." A moment passed, her face contorted in pain, and she said no more. Yet, she continued to smile, and her words hung in the air between them, like a chasm; separating them.

It seemed like an eternity before he mustered the courage to cross over and say what had to be. "Sire, I must confess that I—!"

"... A dream…" The words were barely a whisper.

He huddled closer, "A… A dream, sire?"

"Yes... I was having a most pleasant dream... while you were away…" Arturia said, chest rising and falling laboriously with each word spoken, every breath taken. "Something I... do so… rarely..."

He was losing her. "Sire… I…!"

 _—No, this was the way it should be. The way it was always destined to—_

Nimuë interrupted, washing his unspoken shame aside.

 _—But, this is not the way it might happen. Nor when. You have the chance to alter the events that lead to it. See to it that Arturia lives past these final days. To redeem yourself—_

"... I..." He pressed Arturia's hand to his chest. "I'm…"

 _—But never the outcome, and only if you let her go—_

His hold tightened. "I'm…"

 _—Then, and only then, can you correct your mistake. Only then can you save her—_

"... sorry." It relaxed. "Please rest without worry…" He choked on his words. "If you… If you close your eyes again, you will surely continue dreaming where you left off…"

"Dream… the same dream…?"

A sad, faint smile came to his lips as he finally met her eye, "Yes, sire. I have experienced it myself,"—and he was ashamed because of it—"One must only wish hard enough."

"I see," Arturia said, and there was another long pause until she spoke again, eyelids drooping. "Then, I believe… my slumber this time… will be a long one…" As her right eye closed, she bowed her head with that warm smile still upon her face. Arturia, his King, was gone forever.

Bedivere shook. "Are you dreaming again, my King?" His tears flowed freely, running down his cheeks and dripping onto his hand still holding hers. "Are you able to see it? The continuation… of your dream?"

With her for a little while longer, he at last let go and folded his King's hands upon her chest, brushing aside stray strands of her beautiful blonde hair, and drew away. Hearing Nimuë's voice again, looking upon Arturia as she slept peacefully, he vowed never to betray the person most dear to his heart ever again. Eyes on the shimmering sun as its light broke through the trees, whatever he had to do to make it so, would he. It was his new, unbreakable promise, and he'd wish it so, or may the World have his soul till the end of his days.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The world was on the very brink of another Great War, and if his years told Wilhelm anything, another Great War meant more letters to write home.

He disliked writing letters. Especially letters for soldiers hardly old enough to drink, let alone lay down their lives for such a pointless, vendetta-driven war. A war orchestrated by a madman, who fooled everyone into believing the German people were of the best blood. A war none of them truly understood, and would never be able to comprehend the full extent of until after the bullets started whizzing by their heads and shells were dropped on them just the same. Only once their own blood spilt out alongside their guts and they cried for their fathers, their mothers, their siblings, their grandparents, would they then realize what they'd gotten themselves into; they so blindly believed in. That blood, no matter who or what or where it came from, was all the same.

They were youths swayed by the grandiose speeches and delusional ideologies of a man who for all intent and purpose wanted nothing less than for the world to go up in flames. Three hundred of the Führer's "finest", handpicked and fresh from months of rigorous training in Dachau and Bad Tölz, where each pledged unwavering loyalty to his cause even if it meant the deaths of millions; themselves included. Schutzstaffel—Waffen-SS—and at least fifty men of the Ahnenerbe, Himmler's personal artifact collectors. The Führer was willing to sacrifice them all for his own madness.

In his experience, men like the Führer were often twisted, lonely, individuals. Broken beyond all recompense, and these men—these boys—were too brainwashed to see the truth. Though, while Wilhelm couldn't condone them, he also couldn't leave them to their fate. His duty was to see that every single one of them returned home alive, and by God would he do everything within his power to see that happen. Even if that went against the operation they'd been planning for months prior and would be ready to undertake two weeks today—if it could be called an _operation_ at all.

The reclamation of the Holy Grail, a thing of myth and legend, was a fool's errand, nothing more. With it in their hands, the Führer promised the eradication of poverty and hunger, disease and illness, conflict and strife; all of these miracles and, in the end, none of them. For, despite his claims of what it might grant them, they were the promises of a false prophet.

Wilhelm knew couldn't possibly save everyone, but, at least he knew he could save many, or some, or even a few, and wasn't basing that on superficial nonsense. It was by the fact that he'd led men before. From his first taste of command as a lowly corporal in the Great War, cowering in the trenches trying not to soil himself as the French and British forces closed in, the lives of his fellows unexpectedly on his hands, to now, a captain in the Wehrmacht. It was a judgement made by a rational mind, with enough experience to reinforce it, and not one ruled by illusion or fantasy. What he promised was real, unlike the Führer's. Even so, these same claims were now being reiterated by a man just as wicked and whose ideas were just as delusional as their great leader himself: the leader of those fifty Ahnenerbe, Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia.

Darnic was another man who'd boldly told these young men that they were real, the truth; that the truth was right before their eyes, in the form of the other man clad in silver and blue armor from a time very unbefitting to the current one at his side. What he claimed to be called a "Servant", summoned by the Holy Grail itself, he said. Smoke and mirrors and Houdini trickery, is what Wilhelm thought. Whether the man was an actor paid to play the part or another lunatic he didn't care. All that mattered to him was their destination: the city of Hachiōji, Tokyo, Japan, where the Holy Grail was supposedly being kept hidden. Probably in a shrine, or some other place of worship. He knew worshipers of Christian faith were far and in between over there, so finding such a place where it might be wouldn't prove too difficult, he imagined.

It was another duty of his to make certain the troops, and these two fanatics, wouldn't be going around upturning every rock to find it and having the Führer's troops within the confines of their new friend's capital and largest city was bound to cause tension alone, regardless of the efforts made to solidify partnership between the two, and all this nonsense would only help fuel the fire. He felt such a task would be like a quest for the Holy Grail in and of itself—nigh impossible.

Already he wanted to call it off, but, he'd no say in the matter, staying silent through the rest of the man's speech, and once it was over he went back into his office and called in his adviser, asking for a quick rundown of arms and ammunition. The least he could do was make sure they weren't going in poorly equipped.

Leutnant Meier rattled off a list on the little clipboard in his hand and everything appeared to be in order except that the further down the list the more bizarre—and deadly—it became. "... Maschinengewehr 34s, Panzerbüchse 38s, Flammenwerfer 35s, and Panzerbüchse 39s—"

"Are they mad?!" he cried.

What shocked him the most wasn't the fact he wasn't informed of their addition, but, their being there in the first place. The last one hadn't even been in production for longer than a few months! More importantly what were they going to need anti-tank weaponry for?!

"And that's not all, sir,"—Meier glanced around before leaning close and in a hushed voice quickly said—"Schrapnellmines, newly commissioned just last month, have also been sent for..."

"My God..."

Wilhelm was at a loss for words.

He thanked Meier for the update and when night came and he was alone going over reports, reading between their lines for anything that might've escaped his notice, found a slew of them right underneath his nose. There was enough firepower here to take on a small country!

He didn't pretend to even begin to—or want to—understand the minds of madmen, but what were they thinking?

Just _what_ was this "operation"?

And, as if knowing the exact moment to make his appearance, the man who was undoubtedly behind this let himself in, with his fellow in the fancy dress in tow.

"I pray all is well with the preparations?" Darnic said.

Wilhelm shuffled through and organized the reports, then set them on the stack to his right. The man clearly wasn't here to discuss how best to handle the troops or distribute the requisition of supplies. His tone was haughty and not that of a commanding officer talking with another of equal standing. Rather, a schoolteacher to a schoolboy. One that wasn't appreciated, at all. His voice was rife with disdain as he responded.

He didn't attempt to hide it. "If you have need of me, sir, then say what. Otherwise, and with all due respect, leave."

"I know you think little of me, Hauptmann, but know that what we are about embark on, this… war of mine… is just as real as you and I." Darnic lifted a hand toward the man behind him as if to say that this operation, this reclamation, this little ill-guided quest for the Holy Grail, that the thing itself, was something that could be seen. Something that could be felt; touched.

Wilhelm scoffed. "And I suppose you have the Saint Mary and Three Wise Men waiting outside, as well?"

Darnic chuckled, as lively as a man's death throes. "No, Hauptmann, I am afraid I do not. What I do have, instead, is the famed High King of Erin himself."

The man in the fancy dress stirred, him with a warm, inviting, smile set in soothing, green eyes. With a masculine, pointed face and long, blonde hair, he bore the appearance of one of the many male prostitutes that were still being "relocated", and if the _dead_ could be brought back to life, then perhaps Wilhelm might believe such—for a fiend always traveled with those of its ilk. But, he knew this imposter, whoever he was, was certainly not a king of any sort. Thus he continued reading his reports, waiting for the two of them to leave. When they didn't, he and asked what they wanted. Again.

"It seems you still do not believe me," Darnic said. "Then, may I borrow a length of your time this night?"

"Will you leave me to my work afterwards?"

"Of course," the man said, with a conceited smile.

* * *

Wilhelm followed Darnic out to the Grunewald forest until they came to a small lake deep within, one of many dotted throughout, and he watched as Darnic began drawing some kind of circle in the dirt with another shape inside—a pentagram, if his memory right—and a very intricate one, at that.

"Do you know anything of the occult, Hauptmann? Better known as magic?"

"It doesn't exist."

If this was what the man had brought him out here for, then he was to have none of it. He'd rather spend his time signing off and stamping reports for the more pressing matters at hand than… whatever this was.

"That it does not. At least, not in its purest form," Darnic said as he completed the circle, , and why was it when he flashed a faint smile Wilhelm shivered?

Ahnenerbe's goal within the Third Reich was to find evidence of Germany's supposed "racial superiority" by traveling around the world conducting research, unearthing the accomplishments and deeds of their ancestors using exact scientific methods—hat was the official statement, anyway—but, behind the scenes, there were rumors that they dealt in human experimentation, Satanic rituals, and other heinous acts against God in the name of a united "Aryan" race. While Wilhelm found, once again, the idea of magic absurd, he knew horrible things were being done under the guise of this "research" and usage of "exact scientific method". It was all the more reason why he couldn't support the Third Reich; that he couldn't just abandon those three hundred boys.

"Then, tell me, Hauptmann…" Darnic was writing foreign words along the outside of the circle now. They appeared to be Latin, or Hebrew, but Wilhelm wasn't able to tell for certain. "What do you think of fortune-tellers. Is destiny—is _fate_ —something you believe in?"

"If this is what you wanted to waste my time with, why not explain to me why you requested ordinance without my authorization or even so much as ask my opinion?"

The man turned up from his drawings. "Because, we shall have need of them. Anything less with be altogether ineffective against what lies in wait." He smiled knowingly. "Now that I have answered your question, what of mine to you?"

Wilhelm shook his head. "Soothsayers. Nothing but pretentious con-artists too eager to tell you whatever you want to hear for the money in your purse. And, no, I don't."

"Speaking from past experience, are we?" The man chuckled. "I wonder…"

The letters went all around the circle and were also visible inside another, larger circle that surrounded it where four more, smaller circles faced inward. In each were more symbols that Wilhelm didn't exactly recognize either. When Darnic stepped away he simultaneously broke some sort of jewel in his hand.

"... If your viewpoint will soon change?"

He set the broken jewel in the pentagram's center, telling him what it was.

"An… incantation… circle?" Wilhelm crossed himself and in response the man let out an amused grunt. He ignored the mockery of his faith. He stood by what he said earlier and meant it.

Darnic apologized. "I meant no offense." Then, beckoned for him to hold out his hand. "We are nearly finished."

Indulging him to get his little stunt over with, Wilhelm did so and Darnic said something indistinguishable. It was a verse of some kind, and, immediately after, Wilhelm winced as a tingling, hot, almost searing pain etched itself underneath his skin like a needle and thread were stitching a intricate pattern. The pain was not enough to cry out, and he endured, having felt worse before, staring hard into the other man's eyes as he continued speaking.

"Once, long ago, during the Age of the Gods, magic was everywhere. It was in the sky, the sea, and the earth. In people and animals and even insects. Today it still is, but very faintly so, and it requires special places, such as where we are now, and one knowledgeable in drawing it forth, such as myself, to give it life again." Darnic looked down and Wilhelm followed suit. "Behold."

"Wha… What in God's name... is this…?"

Wilhelm stared dumbly at the bruise-like marks where the pain had been. Blood red and pulsing, they resembled a sword and shield and stung when he brushed his hand across their surface. Almost as if they were alive.

"Command Spells marking you as a Master"—Darnic rolled up his sleeve—"Same as I." On his wrist was a similar mark, though his was that of a serpent coiled around a spear. "It seems the Holy Grail has chosen you to participate, or, rather"—he grinned devilishly—"I forced it to recognize you as worthy."

Wilhelm drew his hand back and tried to rub it off but couldn't. Going to the lake's edge, he then tried to wash it off, but the water sizzled and steamed, evaporating soon as it came into contact. "What in the world?" he whispered, scowling when the man laughed again.

"Try all you will, but once it appears it shan't come off until the War is over. And, do not think of fleeing, as we are not done yet." As if on cue the "High King of Erin" blocked his path and wouldn't let him even if he wanted to. "Please, step up to the circle, and we shall finish this."

That sudden chill came back even colder, his gut wrenching like he was back at Marne, screaming at him to retreat regardless of the consequence, but with no choice, Wilhelm went against orders and begrudgingly did as told.

"Normally it is drawn as the chant is being recited, but as you are not knowledgeable of what that is, and because your attunity is not particularly high, I will provide you with some of my own and will instruct you as you say the words. Now, hold out your hand, and focus on the jewels in the circle's center. Imagine what you hold most dear in your heart, and repeat after me: 'Silver and iron to the origin. Gem and the archduke of contracts to the cornerstone. The ancestor is my great master Schweinorg. The alighted wind becomes a wall. The gates in the four directions close, coming from the crown, the three-forked road that leads to the kingdom circulate..."

Wilhelm repeated the words. The air grew colder and with it his body the same.

"Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut. Repeat every five times. Simply, shatter once filled…"

His hand burned bright. The circle reacted. Wisps of red vapor rose from it to the sky like steaming blood.

"Rider, I announce. Your self is under me, my fate is in your sword. In accordance with the approach of the Holy Grail, if you abide by this feeling, this reason, then answer. Here is my oath."

The sky rumbled, dark clouds appeared on high and hid the moon. The air grew colder still.

"I am the one who becomes all the good of the world, of the dead."

He faltered when a freezing wind came, chilling him to the core, but was compelled to keep going until the end, keeping the image of his wife and child in his mind. And, as he repeated the rest of whatever Darnic was making him say, red turned blue and the air became warmer. It shone white and pure as he said the final lines.

"I am the one who lays out all the evil of the world, of the seven heavens clad in three words of power. Arrive from the ring of deterrence, O keeper of the balance, King of Combat!"

The circle exploded in a shimmer of light, the sound of it deafening, as if an artillery shell went off directly in his ears. Wilhelm screamed, blown back by the blast, and Darnic laughed for the third time, perfectly safe, as all went silent and a figure appeared in the circle's center where the jewels had been.

When the smoke cleared it was revealed to be a knight, armored head to toe in silver armor, with a long gray skirt lined in golden-white fur. Around his neck hung a cross, and draped over his shoulders was a mantle also of golden-white and green cloak. At his side was a sheathed sword, and when he strode forward, whoever it was surprised Darnic, for his laughter ceased.

"What is this?!" he exclaimed, "This is not what I… Wilhelm… _what did you_ …!"

The knight passed him with not a word, leaving him speechless. And, as Wilhelm sat fully upright, cursing his battered bones, the knight crouched before him and offered a hand—the only one he could for the other was gone—and said, "I have answered your summons, Master."

Just as speechless, eyes wide, Wilhelm could do nothing but stare into the knight's eyes through the slit visor of his helm; clear as the ocean and just as bottomless. The knight's voice was low, husky, almost femininely so. It took him a moment to accept the hand.

On his feet again, the knight was nearly a head taller than him, and Wilhelm was still gazing when Darnic opened his mouth again.

His sudden shock was all but gone. "Is this enough to make you believe?"

Wilhelm paid his words no attention. "Wha—Who, are you?"

The knight knelt. "Forgive me, Master. I am the Servant Rider, at your service."


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2 - RIDER II

His Master's face, marred with the scars of many years, was set into an almost perpetual grimace. Decades of hardship were etched into the crevices around his mouth, the lines underneath his eyes, and wrinkles on his forehead. His mouth was hidden by his hands, and Bedivere could hear him muttering behind them, as he seemed lost in deep thought. A collection of angry creases weighed down his brows and shadowed his eyes. On his forehead, an old wound ran diagonal.

It was the kind of face Bedivere knew all too well. Had seen time and again on the men and women he had once served beside, early on in the campaign to unite Britannia. It was a face molded by war. His Master must not have been much older than his late forties, but, lifetimes passed where the battlefield was concerned.

He would have feared him to be under a spell if he hadn't already checked, as the man never brought his gaze to rest upon him. When he finally did, his Master wasn't looking at him so much as trying to make sense of what he was actually seeing.

He moved his hands away and began to open his mouth. "H…" It abruptly clamped shut and he went back to staring. Bedivere noticed the man's gaze was focused on the his right side, where his hand would have been had he not lost it in battle. "How did you lose it? The hand?" his Master asked, after a time, looking him in the eyes now. He indicated at the missing appendage. "Well?"

"To an axe, Master."

"And how much is he paying you to get it replaced?"

The question caught him off guard.

Upon realizing what he meant, immediately Bedivere knelt as before and removed his helm. Afraid it might already be too late, he had to rectify his position. His hair fell like a curtain around his ears as he hastened to do so. "Master. I am ill to know that you have been deceived. If you mean the Master of Lancer, I have no affiliation. I assure you."

"Master… of Lancer…? You mean... Yggdmillennia?" His Master spat the name.

"Yes. And nor have I any to Lancer. I am Rider, your Servant. Bedivere is my name, loyal Knight of the Round Table and right-hand to the Once and Future King, Rightful Ruler of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon. My sword and life are yours, and yours alone."

His Master slumped back in his seat with a sigh, a hand going to his head as if he were in pain. "If it isn't one thing after another…"

"Master, are you hurt?"

His Master closed his eyes and with a groan, said, "Don't call me that."

Bedivere hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "As you say," he managed. "How would you have me address you, then?"

His Master waved a hand about.

He understood.

"Then, I…"—his eyes moved from his Master's face to his body, the grey uniform he wore, decorated with the markings of an officer of high ranking—"Shall call you Sire," he said, raising them back up. His Master cringed, but made no attempt to correct him for a second time. Clearly he was still trying to come to terms with the situation.

And, as his Servant, it was only appropriate to help him in the endeavor.

"If you would allow me to explain—"

"Yes, I want a full explanation," his Master interrupted. Motioning to a chair in the corner of the room, he asked him to take a seat, and as soon as Bedivere did—albeit awkwardly in his armor—took a deep breath. "What is this Holy Grail, really? The one in Japan? Is it the real thing?"

Bedivere's mind went back to the time of the tourney and feast Arturia had held in Camelot the night before the quest to seek the Grail. Of the exemplary courage and companionship shown by every knight who had vowed himself to finding it. The night before their departures and the morrow after would be the last all of them would be together, the Grail ultimately being what broke them apart. Fractured them. But, most of all, he remembered the angst of his King, and the sorrow and the regret of what disbandment the decision had wrought upon the court. Camelot was never the same, forever afterward.

Foretold to grant wonders that only the Almighty himself was able to gift, he had dismissed it as an old wives' tale at first, but right after his King had suffered that most grievous wound he had desperately wanted it to be true. That Percival had returned and its power used to heal her and save her from her fate. Neither happened.

And this new Grail was said to be the very same. Unlike the Grail he knew of, this one was genuine. Attainable.

"It is… real." Nimuë had told him so.

And he wasn't going to let the quest this time around end the same.

Though, his Master didn't appear to be convinced, but before Bedivere could explain further there was a rapping on the door. He concealed himself, transferring his material form to a non-material one, disappearing in a shimmer of green. The action happened almost instantaneously and he soon found himself floating beside the chair where he'd just been and that his Master was now staring at in bewilderment. His Master's eyes darted around the room as he rose from his chair, touching himself forehead to heart in the familiar act of blessing oneself.

There was another rapping on the door.

"C…" His Master paused and peered closely at the chair then shook his head and composed himself, straightening up. "Come in," he said in a slightly agitated voice, still staring at the chair as a young man entered quietly. His Master gave a nod in the young man's direction. "Leutnant Meier."

The young man saluted. A small clipboard was tucked under his left arm and, handing it over, he said, "Sir, sorry for the disturbance, but the Obersturmbannführer has need of you."

His Master looked over what was written on the papers clipped to it. As he flipped through them Bedivere felt a gloom pass over him, hanging there like a storm cloud. His face darkened when there was no more to read.

"Thank you, Leutnant," he said, the agitation turned to barely contained anger.

The young man saluted again, then left the room and soon as the door shut and they were alone Bedivere watched him walk through the rain that accompanied the storm outside, before disappearing into the mist. His Master fall back into his chair, running a hand through his hair with accompanying sigh.

It reminded Bedivere much of Arturia and how she would cope with the courtly affairs too maddening for her ears and often left her drained and exhausted by the time the day was done. Whatever message or report his Master had received was most likely of the same sort, and, like Arturia, one that he wanted to hear, see, nor read no more of.

Though, again, as with Arturia, he was naught to ignore it.

* * *

The next day, after the previous one spent muttering to himself, his Master found and ordered the young man with the clipboard to come with him and gave a glance back, then continued on. Bedivere took it as the sign that he should now resume physical form, and did so, following behind as his Master stomped through the halls of the building they were in, then the streets of what he could only assume to be the staging area for a grand campaign.

Passing marching armed soldiers and their beasts of war as they went by, Bedivere took notice that a few saluted in their direction, or acknowledged them with a nod. It was then he knew his Master was indeed in a high place of power. Citizens greeted him and made way as he went, and though his Master did not return their greetings nor even smile as a kindness he was truly like a king.

Once again, memories of Arturia doing the same came to occupy Bedivere's thoughts.

After a time they were within what he saw as the town square, a large area that broke off in four directions, surrounded by trees and flowers. Yesterday's gloomy weather had been fruitful here, for they were tall, healthy trees of a deep, rich green and lovely, vibrant flowers of red, white, and gold, where atop a fountain in the square's center was the Roman god Neptune, seated with his trident and the fountain's waters, his lifeblood, flowing underneath the throne of barnacles he lounged upon.

A mass group of people were gathered around the fountain, and in their midst Bedivere spotted the Master of Lancer. He was fair haired and handsome, with pointed features reminiscent of a snake. He imagined the man to be just as venomous. At his side was his Servant. In stark contrast to his Master, Lancer was wicked in appearance, more specter than man. A revenant, risen from the dead to feast upon the living. Though, as he and his Master approached them along with a woman Bedivere didn't recognize, there was something about the man that made him seem sincere; unlike whom he served. Of the woman, she was young, fit, pretty. Like one of the fillies used to breed Camelot's stock of war horses. In her hand was a box-like device.

When they came within speaking distance, his Master wasted no time with launching straight into what he must've read in that report.

"What's the meaning of this, Yggdmillennia?" he demanded.

"Emelyn Brestrich, official war correspondent," the woman said, hurriedly introducing herself before Lancer's Master could respond, hand outstretched.

His Master stood stone-faced for a moment, staring at it. Finally, he gestured at her. "Now you're dragging civilians into this?!"

Despite the rejection, she smiled genuinely from ear to ear. "You may call me Emely, Hauptmann." It was like a ray of sunshine had settled on her face, and Bedivere knew right away that she was one of those individuals sorrow could never truly take ahold of. Like Gawain. He imagined the woman's laugh being just as heartfelt. "Well wishes to both you and your Leutnants."

"L… Leutnants?" His Master spun, expression changing from anger to confusion to panic as he went from the woman, to the young man with the clipboard, then over to him, trailing not far behind.

Bedivere had taken it upon himself to match what the young man with the clipboard was wearing, dressed in the same gray uniform and with all the same adornments. He felt it only appropriate, so as not to generate suspicion. But, by the way his Master's face went red and twisted into a grimace as his body trembled he wondered that, perhaps, his decision had been the wrong one.

His Master clenched shaking fists, "Y… _You…_ "

"Ah, Leutnant Bedrydant. I was wondering when you would arrive," Lancer's Master quickly said, flashing a crooked, knowing smile. He came forward and offered his hand. "Your train being delayed might have set us back if you had taken another week or more! Glad of you to finally join us."

 _The man knew his identity already?_

Bedivere accepted only to help solidify the man's fabrication and let go as soon as he was able, loathing the brief moment of contact between them. Liken his appearance, the man's skin was a snake's—smooth, without callouses of any kind whatsoever—as if he'd just finished molting. The unnatural touch of a fork-tongued viper, poised to strike. He felt only once the man was coiled around his prey would he then shed his skin again and reveal his true nature, biding his time until that day came.

And feared that to not be far away.

* * *

The rest of the morning went by with the woman—Emely, as she preferred to be addressed—organizing that group of people, whom Bedivere later found out were those top leaders involved with what was being called "Operation Nightfall", into proper rows for a photograph. The device in her hand was a camera, she had explained, somewhat surprised someone hadn't heard of one before. The latest vogue.

Bedivere had listened intently to her prattle on about the various other devices, ranging from different variations of the box-like camera she had to larger ones that required the use of many hands to operate. All of this was new and fascinating, as even though the Grail had given him some information about the current era it hadn't bothered with the more miscellaneous, mundane details.

Though, one thing it had was the existence of motor vehicles. From bicycles, cars, trucks, and motorcycles to tanks, ships, and aircraft. These were the new horses of the age. Tanks, especially, could be considered the warhorses that would replace the ones of his time. They were the beasts of war seen earlier. All of these he was qualified to ride and if commanded he would, but, honestly, he preferred his mounts to be of flesh than metal, and if given the option to choose the choice would obvious. After all, you couldn't feed apples to a tank. Seeing a mare pulling a farmer and his cart down the street, it fondly reminded him of the one he had as a boy before Passelande.

"You like horses?" Emely said, holding her camera close to her face. Having gone through five rolls of film already, she didn't appear to be slowing down anytime soon.

"Yes."

She now had it pointed at him. "Care to share?"

And, so, he did.

"Wow," she said. "I was wrong. You love them."

"More than most would admit, yes."

Two more rolls later, she asked about how he had lost his hand.

"In a battle."

"It must be hard for you."

The memory of it came to him through the pain in his stump. It ached as he reimagined the sight of his hand flying away from his body; screaming, blood spurting, painting his world a crimson shade, still grasping his sword as it was lost amidst the carnage of the battlefield. Then, only blackness.

And that was all he remembered.

Not even details of the battle could he recall; the majority of what happened having been told to him later by Tristan.

It was after many countless battles had already been fought and won decisively. By that time, everyone had grown a bit too confident, a bit too comfortable, a bit too sure of the stupidity of the enemy they fought to think that they couldn't change. That they couldn't adapt. This battle, later regarded as one of the twelve most significant, put an abrupt end to that.

Many times over the course of this battle, Arturia had led charges into the enemy ranks from their flanks without much causality until reinforcements from the coast arrived. Led by a prince known as Hengist, the enemy quickly rallied themselves under his leadership and the battle continued long into the day. When the majority of their forces had been wiped out, and as it appeared Hengist and his army would break and flee the field, they surprised everyone by offering themselves for wholesale slaughter.

Willingly throwing themselves against them, Hengist utilized the innumerous bodies of the slain to tangle the cavalry and surround them in what was for all intents and purpose a suicidal bid to take out the King in an all out bloodbath.

As for his part, he was sent crashing down, along with a few others, including Arturia, to fight on foot. For a short while, he had fended off the press of bodies that sought to tear him and the others to shreds till their numbers had dwindled to just himself and Arturia. Not long after, he had lost his hand to an axe wielded by Hengist himself, saving his King in the process. Tristan told him the look in his eyes at that moment was ' _so ferocious that even Arturia herself was frightened of what he was capable of'_.

Not that she would have let shown such fear.

What he did remember, were the weeks after, or, rather, fragments of those weeks, of his time spent in recovery. Bedridden for most of that time, slipping in and out of consciousness, he could see the face of Guinevere clearer than all the rest of those who had came to visit him during it. Some of Gawain, Tristan, Kay, and the other knights he knew and ones he hadn't at the time. Few of Vivian, the Lady of the Lake before Nimuë and sole reason he hadn't died from infection. Fewer of Arturia, whom he recalled visiting him only once, to tell him that she was grateful for his service. That his sacrifice would not be in vain.

Later, when he was deemed ready to serve, the loss of his dominant hand often left him in fits of frustration and with thoughts of his own worthlessness, for he had great difficulty doing much of anything. What good was a Marshal of the King if they couldn't even saddle their own horse, let alone ride it? Or fight? But, from the loss of his hand sprouted the companionship and support of fellow knights and castle residents that fixed what he couldn't alone.

He had learned to fight left-handed thanks to the consistent—and, early on, oftentimes brutal—sparring matches with any who was willing, be it page, squire, knight, and, on occasion, king. The smiths had fashioned for him a metal hand and leather arm brace to help hold it in place, for use in riding and other menial tasks. Bakers had given him whatever he asked, for he had lost much of his original muscle mass and had to rebuild it from the ground up.

As a result, his left side was now slightly larger than the right, though he had done all he was able to make them even. Guinevere's girlish affection for him, also, during those many days of his recovery—or perhaps even before then—had turned into a sincere love. Their relationship had shifted drastically in such a short amount of time, and, so too, had his friendship with Morgana.

His mood darkened.

It was also to be the start of when he and Arturia would grow ever farther apart.

And, it was a long stretch of time, the sun dipping below the clouds on the horizon, before either he or Emely spoke again.

"Your commander is really against this operation, isn't he? 'Holy Grail nonsense', he calls it," Emely said, popping out a roll of film from her camera and holding it up to what little daylight was left. The woman must have caught wind of his mood, for her easygoing tone had taken on an air of reassurance. She threw the roll aside and slapped a new one in. "I, for one, find it exciting. 'The Quest to seek the Holy Grail, Renewed'! It would make great film material," she said with a chuckle. Cranking the camera until it was ready for use again, she pointed it in his direction. "What do you think?"

Bedivere simply gave a nod.

Once again, he listened to her talk about whatever came to mind, offering responses to the questions he was willing to answer and meeting with silence or a nod or shake of the head the ones he'd rather not or was reluctant to.

By then night had fallen and the moon and the stars were out.

His Master and the others—his actual Leutnant, Meier, Lancer's Master, Lancer, and a few of those officials from earlier—were still inside the Palace, discussing plans for the operation. From the shouting that drifted down from the uppermost floor, it didn't appear to be going very well.

"They'll be at it until tomorrow morning, I don't doubt." At this point Emely had ran out of rolls and was arranging all her captured film on the ground for later storage. A well-used box was beside her.

"It's necessary for the success of the operation," Bedivere replied. Gazing up at the night sky he couldn't help but think of those cold nights at Camelot.

The nights he and Arturia, and sometimes Guinevere, too, would just watch the stars as they twinkled. Trying to spot the ones that fell, the worries of the Kingdom far from their minds. He hadn't believed Merlin then, what the magician had said about them being able to grant wishes, but, looking for them now, he prayed that he might see one. A shooting star.

Even though the chance was slim. Even though it wouldn't really matter.

And, that was when he felt it.

The presence of something vile.

At once, he sprang to his feet.

Emely jumped with a cry of surprise and knocked over her box, tangling herself in her countless rolls of film. "Gah! A little help here!" she cried, struggling to free herself while trying desperately not to damage any of the rolls.

He could sense it nearby, but not from where or which direction, and knew better than to go off in search. If it was an enemy Servant, then that was exactly what they would want him to do.

"Hey!"

To leave his Master vulnerable and open for attack.

"Leutnant!"

And he wasn't about to let that happen, either. Not again.

Readying himself as whatever it was came closer, he was going to get Emely to safety when a shrill voice called out from the gloom.

"There is no need for violence, Servant," the voice said, as a man peeled himself from the shadows.

Without drawing attention, Bedivere took a cautious step toward him and in a low voice, replied, "State your intent, and your name, or I will have you leave. By force, if need be."

"Very well," the man countered. His skin was dry and leathery, speckled with dark blotches. It stretched over his bones as he grinned. He had no hair, save for receding lines on the sides, his eyes were a sickly yellow and gleamed in the moonlight. A bit more lively than a corpse, as he continued to approach, hunched in his walk and assisted by a cane that looked like a gnawed root. He stopped just outside of striking distance. "I am Zouken Matou… and I have business with your Master."


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 - HOMUNCULUS

 **OUTSIDE OSNABRÜCK, GERMANY, 1939, around the same time.**

Standing atop the battlements of the Einzbern castle Liesel looked down into one of its many courtyards, watching Josefine play a game with the homunculus that was to be the Einzbern Master for this cycle's Holy Grail War with a frown upon her face.

While it was endearing to see the fun they was having, she wished that her counterpart would not be so attached, and, watching them alongside her, Jubstacheit pushed his frost, bushy brows closer together. Unable to fully comprehend the sight of it, his heart cold to the warmth of such a harmless distraction, his forehead wrinkled in what she could only guess was perplexity.

"Is she… functioning properly?" he asked, addressing her for the first time today.

And, for that, did she envy him. "Yes, Lord Einzbern. Her motor skills, physical aptitude, and comprehension ability are working as intended. The memory alterations are still intact, as well."

"And what of the Servant preparations?"

"Nearly complete."

After that, he said no more but continued to simply observe Josefine and the homunculus for a while longer before taking his leave, descending down the steps and disappearing into the castle.

Watching him go, Liesel secretly feared the Monolith's judgement was not truly intact following the total loss of the Second Ritual. Going back to those two in the courtyard, it had sought to utilize a more powerful Servant to succeed the last and during its choosing process, actually accepted a suggestion proposed by one of the Twenty-Seven Ancestors: the use of a non-traditional Heroic Spirit. That was, a wicked being guaranteed to hold great power at the cost of the rules being forcibly changed to accommodate.

And that was what went against the true nature of the Creators' wish.

Servants in the Holy Grail War System were to be of good alignment, and letting a potentially evil existence into the already established criteria was certain to upset the balance the founders had put in place so long ago. There was no telling what affects it would have on the stability of the War and, not without mentioning, their own efforts of claiming the Grail. Also, as if that wasn't enough, further of a concern was the catalyst itself—the homunculus her counterpart was still playing with—Ilseviel.

Either due to ancestry or some other form of compatibility they were bereft to reveal the full extent of, to summon this non-traditional Heroic Spirit the Ancestor had told them to use the remains of a child whom in life possessed 'a count of high quality circuits measuring in the hundreds' as 'the only existence with most likely chance of connecting to the non-traditional Heroic Spirit in question'. Despite the absurdity of it, a number of years were devoted in finding such a child, and when the body of a young girl in Tibet with an extraordinary amount of circuits was discovered in the slums of its capital, the Monolith had jumped at the chance to acquire her.

When the young girl's body arrived, work went underway immediately to turn what was left into a homunculus and thereby keep her likeness intact. As a result, unlike Josefine and herself—or any Einzbern homunculus in their history for that matter—Ilseviel, as was to be her name, had memories, aged nearly the same rate a normal human would—approximately twice as fast—and contained an _actual_ soul, which should have been a total impossibility. All according to and supervised under the Ancestor's guidance.

Not knowing details was one thing, but, to alter the process they had been constructing their units for the past century, was another. There was no telling how unstable she would become as time went on, though so far no signs of mental or physical deterioration had begun to show. Even so, the whole thing was bound to have consequences and, going up the stairs to the ramparts above, Liesel let a sigh escape her lips at the idiocy of it all.

Making her way to one of the various towers which served as a storeroom, taking from it a rack of halberds and now going down to the adjacent courtyard from where Josefine and Ilseviel were playing, Liesel thought of the mess this Third Ritual was to be. She started plucking one halberd at a time and laid them out in a neat, orderly row, checking for wear.

They had more than enough halberds to give to every homunculi currently residing within the castle to ensure it would be defended if something were to happen while she and Josefine were away accompanying Ilseviel to the site where this latest ritual was to be held, but, honestly, what did it matter?

Despite her best efforts in coordinating offensive and defensive tactics learned from previous human conflicts, none of them were up to standard. They were all failed experiments, meant to be broken down but kept functioning because of current events, and with an exception of a few units they were put to work on the grounds serving various roles, which saved her and Josefine some trouble, but also made the days more stressful than she particularly liked. If something were to happen to them in the far east, there was no stopping the decimation of the Monolith here by those seeking to eliminate the competition for any subsequent rituals.

As potent as it was, the bounded field around the castle drove away many creatures and prying eyes of the world, but, as the years passed its power continued to decline, evidenced by a raven perched on the battlements that she now watched. This raven, in particular, she had seen a number of times, always in the same place and never failing to be up to something interesting. Right now, it was cleaning its feathers and glancing up, turning its head left to right. Almost as if it were embarrassed at someone seeing it in what could be considered an invasion of privacy. Occasionally, she noticed, it would stare longingly into the distance. Waiting for something, she thought. Others of its kind, perhaps. A great migration.

Whatever the reason, its presence was a sign that the Einzbern were nearing their end, and, bending down to place the last halberd, she dropped the weapon. Her fingers trembling, it was to the point where it even affected her own functionality. She let it pass, closing the hand and arching back up as she looked toward the side entrance where a lone homunculus had just appeared from. It was Sofine. Upon making eye contact, the girl tried to scurry back inside, only to fall flat on her face. She and the others of her generation were the latest attempts to create the 'ideal' homunculus than any that came before outside of Ilseviel who was a special case.

Though, recalling the main garden displayed in the central courtyard that she had put an unsurmountable effort into making presentable, day in and day out over too many years—despite the fact that nobody was likely to come by and see them—recently hacked to oblivion by the girl she now stood over, Liesel doubted her memory was what it used to be.

What she did remember, clearly enough, was that day.

The day her stress had finally caught up with her. For all of that painstaking and needless work to be literally torn to shreds in a matter of seconds, it went without mention that her anger had exploded, sending her off on a rant that had frightened even herself. The snide comments from Josefine had not helped, either, and while she had directed it at the impatience of Jubstacheit in rushing the process, thereby resulting in defective units like Sofine, there was plausible reason as to why the girl tried to run the moment she saw her.

Cowering behind the broom she carried, trying to make herself as small as possible, Liesel was reminded of a mouse hiding beneath the many summer leaves that still littered the courtyard.

"Sofine?"

"Y-yes, Lady Liesel…?" the girl squeaked, gentle red eyes peeking through the bristles before moving it away from her face entirely.

Like the others of her generation, she was lovely—as all Einzbern homunculi evidently were—though, unlike her sisters, unusually short and thin to where she would be crushed if thrown together with the rest. Which was one of the reasons she was often assigned to help the tuners in their errands. The incident with the garden had been her first interaction amongst others of her kind on castle grounds outside of message running since she was created—and after Liesel's own subsequent outburst, her last.

Pinching her brow and cursing because of her own lack of self-control back then—a mistake she would never make again—Liesel knew full well it had not been the girl's fault.

She also had yet the opportunity to tell her that. Until today.

And then she thought: perhaps now was the best time to remedy that.

"I need you to come with me."

* * *

Within the confines of the castle there were a total of seven courtyards, six outside with one at the center. Inside each courtyard was a garden, with the most grandiose being in the central courtyard, simply referred to as the main garden.

It was a white, red, and violet circlet of many beautiful flowers from the most ghostly orchids, to the very radiant of veronicas, and frostiest of pansies. They were all grouped together, spiraling around a flower on the crown that was so thin it almost appeared translucent as it rose above the rest.

Now, it was little more than a patch of disheveled dirt and grass. All the flowers had been cut down to their stems and petals were still scattered over the courtyard, serving as a lasting reminder that nothing was forever.

Taking some grass seed from a sack and sprinkling them in the shallow hole she had just finished digging, cursing her declining functionality when her arm jerked and they fell everywhere but the hole, Liesel motioned Sofine over.

Nothing was forever, but, that did not mean it could not be remade.

"Sofine." Liesel wiped her hand on her apron, holding out her shovel. "Come here."

"You want me to…?" the girl pointed from herself to the hole, then looked over at the bag. Receiving a nod in reply, Sofine took some seed, dropped them in the hole, and poured some dirt carefully on top, managing not to spill too much of it. "... like this?"

"Yes. Splendid." Pointing to another spot where there was nary any grass, Liesel told her to try it by herself this time.

She beamed. "R-right!" she said, jumping at the chance to correct her folly from last time.

It was going to be a while before the main garden would look like it once had—a few years, by her estimation—but, observing the way Sofine slowly sank the shovel into the soil, trying to judge an appropriate depth to pull it free, Liesel was confident it could be done again. Perhaps it could even become grander than it once was. And maybe even cure a failure in the process.

Though, her mind moving to more pressing matters, the cool night air giving her an unwelcome shiver, the effort might all be pointless. Recalling the Servant preparations, the last components needed for the ritual to summon it were supposed to arrive in a few days. The Ancestor was personally delivering them itself, which had been previously done through the use of familiars. She had no way of knowing which of the Twenty-Seven it was, and not knowing was often a fatal mistake.

Having dealt with their ilk in the past, she wondered what interest one would have in the Holy Grail to begin with, and none of what she thought seemed pleasant. Though, any misgivings she had on the matter fell on deaf ears, for Jubstacheit had locked himself in his study until the Ancestor's arrival, and, furthermore, once the Monolith made its decision there was no dissuading it. Thus, as Sofine finished planting seeds and she told her to start on the next one, even if she had the means to convince him that it was foolish to trust the word of the undead, regardless of which Ancestor and what their interest was, the end result would be the same.

It was all a bother.

"How goes the restorations?"

 _And speaking of bothers…_

"Faster, if you helped," Liesel said without turning to address her counterpart, who now only worried and accomplished the bare minimum of her regular duties due in part to units like Sofine and in part due to taking it upon herself to be Ilseviel's main 'caretaker'.

A dereliction she couldn't stand.

Josefine gave a shrug and took the shovel from Sofine, leaving the girl to awkwardly stand to the side looking lost. Liesel told her to help distribute seed as her counterpart dug a few holes. The girl accidentally spilled the bag.

"I-I'm sorry… Lady Liesel…" Sofine stammered, head bowed.

"It's alright. Mistakes are… normal. You've done quite enough. Please attend to your other duties." Dismissing the girl, Liesel watched her limp away.

"That one is so clumsy," Josefine commented, braided hair falling over a boastful bosom as she continued shoveling dirt. "Or, she might just have a perpetual fear of weeds."

Filling the holes, Liesel gave her a distasteful look. "This is not a time for jokes."

"I was being serious."

She rolled her eyes. "Where is she?"

"Sleeping, currently"

"I assumed you were going to be with her still?"

Josefine unhurriedly planted the shovel. "I felt it best to inform you of something, first."

"What do you mean?"

"The Ancestor is here with the final components."

* * *

In the castle's ceremony chamber, Liesel waited with Jubstacheit for the arrival of Josefine and Ilseviel. The Ancestor's familiar, a large, black wolf, sat in front of the incantation circle with all the pieces in the center and ready to start. Above it, the stained glass portrait that depicted the ritual of the Grail's first conception loomed: three magi arranged around a goblet, each reaching a hand out to touch it. The one in the middle, with the ridiculously tall crown, dressed in white and gold, was Justeaze Lizrich von Einzbern: the first Einzbern.

Solely birthed to give shape to the Grail and with it the reclaiming of the Third Magic that was taken from their Creators, she had became its core and it was her essence that allowed the ritual to continue into the present day. If only she were here now, then perhaps she would be able to see that trusting this Ancestor was a course of action too much a risk to undertake. But, Justeaze was long gone, and the Grail, no matter how important, was no substitute. It never would be, and Liesel went forlornly from her to Nagato Tohsaka garbed in red on the right.

The youngest—by far—of the three, calculating and devoted where work was concerned, he had been a very pleasant, dependable young man.

She could not say similar of his descendants.

Naomi was much more involved in the political upheaval of the Association than her great-grandfather ever came close to being, wrapped up in her own warped ideologies of his wishes, too bullheaded to see that her method of carrying them out was doomed for failure. Proud, ambitious, and stubborn, her offspring and their children were going to have a very difficult future ahead of them if she survived. Though, at least her son was not completely within the clutches of the Association, so there might be hope for them yet.

Moving to the left, the faint smile on Liesel's lip shriveled. For, in all black, was the most maniacal thing to come out of the world of magi in centuries: Makiri Zolgen.

After the First Ritual—after the death of Justeaze—the once charming, handsome man they had known was no more. In his place was a selfish, conniving worm that only cared for himself and his own interests. Oldest of the family heads, he had been the sole reason behind the Second Ritual turning into such a bloodbath and Liesel shuddered just thinking about it. She had not seen him since, but knew he was still alive somewhere, preparing for this Third Ritual, and she prayed for everyone's sake that deep down the Makiri Justeaze had known well—the Makiri Liesel wanted to always remember herself—was still present within that… creature he had become.

Remembering the man he used to be, it all made her feel very aged.

The signs were becoming more noticeable as the decades went on.

Even now, her hands were clasped tight as if fused together by wax to keep from shaking, but even then her shoulder twitched slightly and she could do nothing but endure it as Josefine and Ilseviel finally entered the chamber. With them now here in attendance, they were ready to start the summoning ritual that was to guarantee their chances of ever obtaining the Grail, and, perhaps, forever to come, to be rendered a hopeless wish.

When the doors shut completely, the Ancestor's familiar stood and walked to the corner of the chamber where the shadows cast by the moon light's through the stained glass portrait were the densest, and laid down. Behind it, out of the darkness, came forth a dark haired woman.

No, to say she came forth was incorrect.

It were almost as if she extended from it, with her long, dark hair trailing behind. And wrapped in a black gown that appeared to weigh heavily on her shoulders, her back stooped over as she slowly stretched herself across the floor and came to loom over the spot her familiar had originally been.

"I see that we are all accounted for," she rasped.

Her eyes were strikingly lucid, and unlike the rest of her—a face ravaged by time, skin cracked and whiter than a winter's moon—not lost any of their youthfulness. They were also the color of blood. Not the vivid red of freshly spilled, but the blackened stains left behind to dry and, as they slowly moved between them, when Liesel peered into their depths, they were cold.

Deadly, frighteningly, cold.

So frigid one's whole body became numb, frozen where they stood. Locked under their spell, one felt compelled to look into them for eternity, at the blackness that swirled in their core. And they didn't capture your gaze so much as consume it.

It took a great effort for Liesel to pull herself away and stop following after them as they passed over her in that brief moment of contact. A moment that had been just that, but which left her very tired, drained of her strength. Drawing in only shallow amounts of breaths afterwards, the air had been taken from her lungs. No, to be more accurate, the very heart of her had been touched. When she dared next look—a sideways glance that did not focus on the Ancestor's upper face—Liesel could have sworn on those dry, thin lips, barely a sliver, was a smile.

It was then she knew they had indeed made a horrible, damning mistake.

And, as the Ancestor stopped before Ilseviel with a certain purpose, she had the feeling their world was to come crashing down in the days ahead.


	5. Chapter 4

**IV**

If letters were one of the things he hated the most, then meetings were one of the things he valued the most.

To finally be a part of one would have left him elated any other time, but, here, now, as he was, sitting in the corner of the room, farthest away from where Yggdmillennia and the more 'esteemed' individuals involved in the operation were seated, one of the last things he ever wanted to do was attend a meeting full of people just as crazy, or possibly even crazier, than the man who claimed he'd brought Vlad the Impaler back from the dead. Especially when what was being discussed weren't issues that would help the men or what to do if the Imperial Army got involved—which they undoubtedly would.

How best to achieve the operation's success was what they should be discussing, but instead it was a debate of how the Holy Grail ended up in Japan in the first place, whether it was actually a physical thing or something symbolic in nature, and what research to conduct once they found it.

They were so certain of themselves. So assured that they might find something there, even as they were split over what it might be. If he had to give them credit for anything, it would be their devotion to their cause, blind though it may be.

But, once again, all that mattered was what saved the most lives, and with the way the talk was going, it didn't bode well for the men being able to see their twilight years.

And, as if that weren't enough, Yggdmillennia had allowed for another civilian—another woman—to join them, without him knowing about it until after the authorization had went through. So, even if he raised hell about the subject, in the end he was powerless. Again.

She stood in the corner of the room opposite with her back to the wall. While she hadn't moved since the meeting began, she was listening intently, or seemed to be, anyway. Occasionally, she would glance in his direction. And, with a look like that of Gutrune from _des Nibelungen_ —someone so beautiful no words could describe—he would have wondered why nobody else had noticed her yet. But, then, with the fact that everyone else was so absorbed in their meaningless argument, far too heated now to call it a sensible debate—not that it ever was—didn't surprise him one bit. In all honesty, he was glad that they hadn't. All the tales he hadn't bothered to pay attention to as a child, and those same tales he'd listened to his wife tell about that were her love, had been defiled by their propaganda. The idea that they had been stabbed in the back by their own was absurd back then and sure as hell wasn't any better now. If they viewed this woman in the same way, then they would use her in the same way. To ruin what he had come to love.

That was when it hit him.

First, it was the man with a missing hand appearing out of thin air, proclaiming he was Bedivere, Knight of the Round Table, and who had the audacity to impersonate a commissioned officer. Now, it was a woman with hair so golden-white and skin so fair she came straight from Wagner's opera. A goddess, beauty unparalleled and sorrow unfathomable, bound to the earth to wallow in damnation for eternity, and, in reality, just another lunatic Yggdmillennia had hired to harass him, using illusions to appear when they knew it would irritate him the most. To tell him that this Holy Grail War was indeed the real thing. That those claims about it granting miracles were true. Someone put near him to spy on his activities, and at the same time aggravate him to no end.

Well, he wasn't a man so easily seduced.

The only woman who'd ever was Klara, and if Yggdmillennia thought this woman was in the same caliber, no matter her beauty, he was sorely mistaken. The very notion was enough to put him in a foul state of mind. And, not soon after, as the meeting was reaching its peak, another uninvited guest arrived.

This time it was a man with a cane who looked like he had one foot in the grave, informing them that all their squabbling was futile. That their enemies had amassed a force so great it didn't matter if they had the means to get the Grail because all of them would be wiped out in the attempt regardless of whether they had a hundred, three hundred, or a thousand men at their disposal and any other manner of weaponry. They were all doomed, unless they accepted his help.

The interruption stunned all at the front into silence for a moment, before they erupted into an outcry of protest.

"What's the meaning of this, Leutnant?!" one of them cried, rising from his chair. Wilhelm didn't know know who he was, didn't rightly care, and when the red-faced man thrust a finger in the old man's direction, he pointed at Yggdmillennia's lackey standing to the old man's left. "Who is this man?! Explain yourself!"

Then, everyone else blew their tops. They were shouting so loud he plugged his ears Wilhelm, noticing that the only one who didn't partake in the mob was Yggdmillennia. The man was content to simply sit there with that smug look on his face, as his fellows went about flinging accusations and insults now that the focus was on the old man. Seeing that was the last straw. Enough was enough. He got up.

He should be back with the troops where he belonged. Where he would actually be able to do something, instead of being forced to listen to a lynching that wasn't getting them anywhere. Wasn't doing anything to ensure that those actually undertaking the operation would be prepared as possible. As well as they could, anyhow, with all of this nonsense being thrust in their faces—mainly his—matter-of-factly.

But, as he went to leave, just as a well-groomed, weasel-looking man was saying his piece, an explosion blew them all backwards as an intense, blinding light bathed everything in a bright, crimson red and, as they were thrown to the floor, something malicious, something malevolent, something so indescribably ugly, passed through their bodies and dispersed itself around the room.

With its departure shortly after came the old man's voice, cackling as he spoke, "That is what awaits you, and you will face it alone, and you will die, without my help."

Face to the cold marble floor, Wilhelm felt as if he was being kept pinned by the sheer hatred that lingered in the air. Only able to stand to his feet with help from the man who still had the audacity to wear a commissioned officer's uniform, he yanked his arm away and looked around the room. Everyone, besides a few notable exceptions, were pale, trembling, and so horrified it were as they had seen a glimpse of what Hell was truly like. He himself was shaking, and frowned.

He'd already seen Hell. Been through it more times than he could count or wanted to, and, yet, he couldn't keep the torment of his experiences from bubbling to surface after so long. With them, came those pains and regrets and sorrows afterward. His frown deepened. When asked if he was unhurt, he shook his head.

Yggdmillennia's egotistical voice ring out in the silence that followed. He was one of those who didn't appear to be affected by the aftereffects that plagued the rest. It came as no surprise.

"It would seem that you speak the truth. Though, I cannot help but wonder what interest you have in warning us of the danger that awaits and forming an allegiance to combat it. Certainly, an _esteemed_ man such as yourself has no need to."

At that the old man, another who was unaffected, smiled. But, whatever he said in response Wilhelm didn't bother to hear.

Unable to allow himself to be surrounded by these people any longer, he left the room to get some fresh air.

* * *

Outside, it were as if the Heavens had been torn asunder.

Great plumes of black cloud swirled around an enormous hole in the sky. In its center was a dark storm. Sparks of lightning streaked across, chased by claps of thunder.

Satan waging war against God.

Though he couldn't tell how far, it was to the northwest. Close enough to be seen from here, at least. Speaking of, people were now crowding the streets, staring up at it with a mixture of confusion, dread, and awe. One of them he recognized as that 'war correspondent' Yggdmillennia had allowed to be attached to the operation. Unlike the rest she was more interested in photographing it, along with interviewing anyone not completely transfixed by the gaping maw above their heads. He saw that black birds—ravens—had also gathered, roosting in the trees. An omen, surely.

Now clear of mind, though broodingly coming to terms that maybe, just maybe, these happenings might be the work of something unnatural, something unfathomable to mortal men, Wilhelm almost wished he were someplace else. Far away from Yggdmillennia, his lackeys, and the Third Reich. With his family. But, that wasn't an option, the moment passed, and, thus, he addressed the man who had been standing silently behind him the whole time.

"You said you would give me a full explanation," he said, continuing to watch the battle in the sky for a moment more, then facing him. "Well, what else do you have to tell me?"

The man didn't seem to hear him. His attention was on the ravens. Turning back to look at them, some were flying off toward the storm in a great host. A legion of black-winged terrors, squawking as they went. When the ravens were no longer visible Wilhelm again asked, but the man stayed there, eyes still on the sky. Still looking after the ravens. It took a third time to snap him out of whatever occupied his thoughts.

And, whatever it was, hadn't been pleasant.

His face was ashen, with sweat on his brow, fatigue lining his features as if he were having a fever, and he swallowed, trying to compose himself. It was several minutes before he did. "Sire," he began, slowly, "What is it you wish to know?"

"Everything."

His eyes went briefly to the ground as he appeared to compile his thoughts. Work the sickness from his body, and answer: "The Holy Grail is… a chalice. A large, golden cup that once filled is supposed to grant the wishes of whoever touches it first. In order for it to be filled, six of the seven Servants who seek it must be defeated, as only one may claim it. The last surviving Servant and, their Master, of which there are also seven—for a total of fourteen—can have but one wish each. Tangible or intangible it does not matter, whatever they wish for will be made a reality."

"Anything?"

"Yes."

Wilhelm put a hand to his mouth, brushing the thorny stubble of a fast growing beard. Like many, he could think of a dozen things to wish for, but only one he truly wanted. Something lost but not forgotten. Though, looking up at the second floor window, the same could be said for, he assumed, Yggdmillennia. The thought of what that man might want left a knot in his stomach. Or any of the other Ahnenerbe, for that matter.

And if the man he hired spoke the truth—not that he really believed any of it—then, hypothetically, if he had the chance to lay claim to it, then so did Yggdmillennia. Even if he didn't become the one to have his wish granted, the least he could do was see to it that Yggdmillennia didn't either.

* * *

Later, that night, or, that morning, as Berlin was busy being abuzz with the earlier events now being called a freak weather phenomenon, Wilhelm lay awake in his bunk. Thinking of the storm, it wasn't that he believed in it, but…

He stared at the ceiling, wondering how all of this nonsense was designed to keep him from whatever was really being plotted behind his—and, by extension, his men's—backs. They were trying very hard to conceal their true plans. Something deeper than what was written in the reports, of the ones he actually received. If he could do nothing else, the least he could do was investigate further, and what better way that to charge straight into the fire headfirst?

Yes. That was it.

He was only willing to give their claims some credibility so as to discover the truth buried beneath. That hole in the sky? Exactly what had been explained—an odd, once in a lifetime, occurrence. What he really needed to worry about? The maniacal scheme they were hiding. Closing his eyes and expecting to get at least an hour or two before he had to get up again, praying the bull he was going to have to deal with later wouldn't be anymore hoaxes, he would start getting to the bottom of this operation. He owed it to his men.

That was when he heard whispers in the dark.

And, it was then, he knew, that his prayers had gone unnoticed.

He opened his eyes, annoyed. It was probably some of the men, playing cards in the next room over. The walls were thin, so it was only expected. He listened closer.

"... this boy… High King of all Britain? Preposterous! I'll not bend my knee to no mere boy!" someone shouted. Or, seemed to. They sounded distant, like an echo. Yet, so close, as if they were right on the other side of the wall.

"Lot, you do not bend your knee to a boy, but your King," another voice said, wizened in tone and ancient in bearing.

"A King?! Hah!"

"He's not even a man grown! Still a child!" a new voice said, joining the first.

Then, a third. "That's right!"

"For once I, too, agree with Caradoc!" A fourth.

Fifth. Sixth, seventh, eighth—it became a rabble of many spiteful, angry voices and as they grew in volume, right up against his ears. Like before, Wilhelm plugged them and thought he was done with those Ahnenerbe loons, grinding his teeth as they grew louder and louder.

And louder.

And louder.

And louder.

Threatening to split his mind in two, he felt his ears about to burst until there was a huge crash of thunder. A deafening boom that made him jump.

The voices were silenced.

After, he lay in a profuse sweat for a moment, ears ringing, heart pounding out his chest. Then, slowly, he got up and went to the wall. He waited. Nothing. He took a breath to calm his nerves, then opened the barrack door. Nobody there. Slipping out into the hallway, he peeked into each room beside his. Everyone was asleep.

Had he imagined it?

Was he going crazy?

He put a hand to his forehead and chuckled. No, he concluded. He was simply tired. Too tired. Hadn't had a decent night's sleep since the operation began, and it was finally starting to take its toll. Shaking his head, he aimed to solve that right now, and turned to head back when he noticed something: the hallway, it was gone.

The barracks was gone.

In its place were tents, pavilions, and, in a confused daze, he wandered through them until he was standing at the edge of a field of grass and flowers. Some ways ahead he spotted a crowd. In the distance, behind them, a lake. The crowd was huddled together in a semi-wide circle, and he continued toward it, feeling as though something were pushing him gently forward. As he got closer, he heard someone speaking again. That same wizened voice as before. Most of what was being said was lost to him, and upon reaching the fringes of the crowd there was an explosion of bright light.

"Argh—!"

He flinched from its pure intensity, not unlike the one before but yet so different. Covering his eyes as, despite himself, he kept going forward until he was through the throng. Before him was a large stone, with an anvil atop it. Wilhelm blinked rapidly as the light dimmed to a faint glow and saw a… a young man…? No… a… young girl… holding aloft a sword of exquisite beauty.

"What in..."

He began to step back but was held still by a heavy hand. He looked up, seeing the hazy outline of a large man whose shaded face didn't mask the rugged complexion of his features or the hefty, gruff weight to his voice as he spoke. That of a seasoned soldier, as he leaned over and whispered down into his ear.

"Do not shy away. This is something you must bear witness to. This is it, the moment we've all dreamt of but never thought would come true. The reign of a new High King. Arthur, son of Uther, and you, my son, will be his most loyal companion, as was I to his father before him."

Trying to make sense of what in God's name was going on, the only thing Wilhelm knew was that he wasn't in Berlin anymore. Everything familiar had up and vanished.

Was it Yggdmillennia's doing? Had he kidnapped him in his sleep and dragged him off to some far away place? Was this another one of his tricks? And—as he found he didn't have complete control of his actions—had that despicable man drugged him?

He couldn't even move his head or turn away and, gazing at that sword for what seemed like an eternity against his consent, it enveloped him and he thought himself permanently blinded.

That is, until he awoke with a start.

Shooting up, he twisted at his chest, heaving. Wide-eyed, he looked around. He was still here. Still in his bed. Still in his barracks. Had it been just a bad dream? No… some kind of nightmare?

"S… Sire…?"

He looked over.

The man who had been hounding him since last night sat by the foot of his bed, head bowed and voice low. He sounded hurt, and when he looked up a tear rolled down his cheek. There was a rawness to it, like the pain of fresh, open wound. His face was now a portrait of grief, loss, and devastation. That of a man who had suffered before and didn't know if he could do it again. Then, as he wiped the tear away, the brief display of emotion was put in check and he was composed, like before.

Wilhelm waited, expecting him to say something more, but, in the silence that followed, no more words came. Reminded of himself as he studied the man seated by him like a gargoyle—unmoving and hard as stone—Wilhelm felt a kind of comradery, remorsefully knowing exactly where it came from, and, as the silence between them grew, he asked: "You said you aren't... one of Yggdmillennia's followers… are you...?"

The man gave a nod. "Yes. Nor would I ever."

"Then… Leutnant…" He had to force the words, the designation that this man didn't deserve, to come out. "First thing 0500… We have some work to do."

"Yes, Sire. Thank you, sire…"

Wilhelm frowned, grumbling away the man's thanks and going back to bed. Hoping to set his exhausted mind straight, he was disgusted that he felt for the man and his nightly woes.

And, how little, that sympathy was.


	6. Chapter 5

**V**

Bedivere stood outside the barracks, looking out to an early morning sky of red and orange, the first rays of sunrise kissing the top of the city, a small, distant break in the gathering clouds the only remnants of the previous night. Thinking again of the nights Arturia, Guinevere, and he shared under those stars, to be able to forget who and what they were; three friends without a care in the world, no greater purpose to their existences than as youths still ignorant of the world and nothing but their dreams laid out before them, far as the eye could see—if only their lives had stayed that way.

Camelot, during the nearly ten year long campaign to free Britannia from the clutches of the Saxons, had been so rundown, in such disrepair, that nobody would have thought it to be the same luxurious capital in those golden years after. Kay had been the one to thank for most of its renovations, taking it upon himself to be the seneschal of the king. Without him, there would have been no Camelot.

First serving as the crude base of operations from which to launch their forces, after countless battles—twelve of them decisive victories, one of those being where he lost his hand—the only obstacle in their way to it becoming that almighty symbol of splendor, power, and chivalry had been Vortigern, the Serpent King of Britannia. An old enemy of Arturia's father Uther and Ambrosius, her uncle, he was the one mainly responsible for letting the Saxons set foot on British soil decades before, after murdering then High King Constans for the title. Employing them as mercenaries to stem the tide of barbarian hordes coming down from the north so that he might rule unobstructed, he had promised, for their service, land that they might settle. However, shortly after driving out the northern tribes, Vortigern, in his greed in wanting all of Britannia for himself, wrongly denied them what was rightfully arranged. As a result, he plunged everything into chaos.

Some fifteen years later, Uther and Ambrosius—for Constans was their older brother, only a boy at the time of his death and they but infants—after being spirited away to Brittany, came home to Britannia only to find it pillaged, plundered, and burned. The very land they had been paid to protect, the Saxons destroyed and subsequently enslaved. Vortigern, being unable to keep them controlled, had taken his forces and hid in his stronghold in the south, abandoning Britannia, as cowards often do. The surviving two true heirs of Constantine quickly gathered an army of their own to quell the situation. What followed was a bloody and seemingly endless war against the Saxons, which eventually led to the Battle of Badon Hill, where the tables were turned by the combined Legions of Rome commanded by Ambrosius and those warriors of Britannia rallied by Uther. In this battle, the Saxons had been struck a harsh blow, Vortigern said to be killed, and the war all but won.

And, for a time, it was.

Then, Ambrosius was poisoned, like his father and older brother before him, by followers loyal to Vortigern, leaving the title of High King to Uther. With the more dangerous of the two dead, the Saxons saw their opportunity to start the war anew, and, soon, Uther found himself fending them off alone.

Years later, after a hard struggle, he finally crushed them thanks to the aid of Gorlois, a duke.

And so, then, began the beginning of the tale of Arturia.

After his victory, Uther fell in love with Gorlois's wife, Igraine. His desire for her was so much that he threatened war with the duke, and did so. During this war of lust, Merlin transformed Uther to look exactly like Gorlois so that he might sneak into the duke's castle and seduce Igraine. He ended up doing just that, unbeknownst to the real Gorlois, who died in battle some days later.

From he and Igraine's union, Arturia was born.

At least, that was how Bedivere had always thought it happened.

The story Morgan had told him later, had been a very different version. According to her, while the events of leading up to Arturia's birth were more or less the same, her birth itself was the result of a certain Magician's weakness.

Merlin, adviser to Uther, had convinced their father to pursue a 'maiden of the highest purity' and lay with her, to conceive an heir who would become 'greater than any who came before'. For his part, after throttling Gorlois in his sleep and raping Igraine, Uther thought himself the father of a new lineage of God-like kings. Infused with the essence of a red dragon the Magician had said was 'the embodiment of Britannia's people, their hopes and dreams', 'the ultimate ruler, the perfect paragon, the most infallible warrior', was created; a King of Knights. But, in reality, both Uther and his heir were nothing more than pawns in Merlin's scheme to see the world tumble to its inevitable death.

 _He who sees the World knows all, but with this knowledge comes great responsibility—or, in Emrys's mind, great dread. He has seen the End, and, so, with a life steeped in hatred for humanity, sought to help that end come sooner than expected. The death of man, as they had done to the gods before them, and my dear sister, is his tool of vengeance._

The only thing Bedivere agreed with was that Arturia had truly been a King of Knights, everything else being nothing more than fairytale. Lies spun by Morgan, jealous of her younger sister's crowning as the new High King, fourteen years after Uther died in battle against the Saxons. Who, like moths to a flame, had come back to seize a second opportunity to conquer Britannia as he and Gorlois waged their civil war. And, who, then, would burn themselves upon the pyre, lit by Arturia, the Once and Future King.

After their defeat, it had been learned that Vortigern survived his battle with Uther and Ambrosius, and had re-occupied his stronghold in the south. And, with him, one final battle until Britannia would be united under a single banner: that of its true High King's, Arturia Pendragon.

Months before it was to take place, he had suffered the crippling affliction from the loss of his right hand. Then, weeks before, he had been given Passelande, Arturia's own personal warhorse before she moved on to an even grander steed. A great charger selectively breed from a mixture of Arabian, Roman, and Britannian stock, Passelande had been just as majestic as he was mythical. Blessed by Vivienne herself, it was Arturia's gift to him for his bravery during that ill-fated battle against the Saxons, who afterward had been all but completely broken.

He remembered the utter defeat of being unable to saddle him.

At that time, Arturia was on tour to visit all the lands under her rule in the short break leading up to facing the Serpent King to rally support and boost morale for the last push. While she was fine in dealing with the petty kings—enough of them had thankfully flocked to her during her struggle against the Saxons and were willing to do so again to meet Vortigern in battle and defeat him once and for all—he knew that she would not be with everyone else. He had known that without him there by her side that she would try to uphold the lessons taught by Merlin of what humanity was. Fail to see her subjects for what they truly were. For, despite his dismissive of Morgan's tale, he later learned that Merlin was not human himself. With the unnatural length of time the Magician had been alive, unlike with Arturia being half-human and half-dragon, he had realized what her warning of Merlin's evil meant: he wasn't able to understand, and he had passed this lack of understanding down to Arturia.

Because of this, in being unable to empathize with her subjects, even if she managed to win against the Serpent King, without approval from those she led, a King who didn't have the heart of his subjects was nothing more than a tyrant, and Britannia didn't need another.

So, even though she had ordered him to remain at the castle and continue his recovery, even though she had said she would have no need of him, she still did. Someone to help her understand. Who better than her right-hand? At least, then. And after. For a long while. And, despite his devotion to the role, Kay had been no substitute.

Where Arturia went, he went. Always.

And nothing was ever going to break them apart, so long as he had still drawn breath.

* * *

The dreams they shared still fresh in his mind, Bedivere stood against one of the many pillars that supported the capital building of the city where, down below, in its square, were all the men under his Master's command. The Reichstag, it was called, and its square was being used as a temporary training area for the troops, as he watched them go about their daily exercise routines, rifles at their shoulders and discipline in their step. All five hundred of them.

Two hundred reinforcements had been commissioned to bolster the already significant force, the request made after Lancer's Master agreed to that vile man's terms. That, unless they worked together to defeat the odds stacked against them, nobody would win the Grail. Last night was clear evidence of some dark magecraft at work, but, while this unseen threat was no doubt frighteningly powerful, it would be fatal to assume this alliance of theirs would last. Bedivere couldn't guess their intentions, and thus couldn't trust them. Not that he would have even if he did, with the way both of them seemed to expect the explosion before it happened. There was definitely something else between them, going on in the shadows.

And it went without mentioning that the two men had also since disappeared.

Leutnant Meier said Obersturmbannführer Yggdmillennia had left on official business, taking "Mr. Makiri" with him, leaving any further preparations unattended and in their care for a few days. Laid out for them was a set of instructions that Leutnant Meier then promptly listed off and his Master, after telling the Leutnant to discreetly poke around and unearth more details, had ignored in favor of personally seeing to it that the men were being kept in shape and fit for the combat they would see later on. Barking orders, pointing and shouting as they worked in tandem with one another, each man doing the exact same as the one behind and in front of him, his Master was truly a leader of men. Bedivere expected no less.

A well-trained, well-equipped, masterfully lead army was the ruler of the battlefield, and any soldier worth their sword could see that the men of this army, arrayed in neat columns and rows and so in sync they were a single entity, was a force to be feared. He was fondly reminded of the Roman legions of old. Of Ambrosius's auxiliaries, those battle-hardened _legionarii_ who for one reason or another were stuck fending off the hordes of invaders on Britannia's shore alone, after his sudden death. Cut off from Byzantium in the east, in dire times that required dire decisions, after Uther died and Arturia became High King, they had rallied behind her to drive the Saxons and their like back to lands whence they came.

When Vortigern had been defeated, those willing were invited to join Arturia's court as protectors of peace and order, becoming the backbone of her rule in those early days. A few of their number had even joined the inner circle that was Arturia's Companions, which was later expanded into the Round Table known far and wide. Arturia's Companions turned into Arturia's Knights, the Knights of the Round Table, ushering in a new era that lasted ten more years until…

 _One day, my dear Griflet…_

He tightened his only fist.

"Something the matter?"

Emely sat on the step, film camera tucked underneath her raincoat—another modern invention she hadn't minded explaining about—to keep it dry. Overhead, the sky was a blanket of light gray. Rain, a shower so punishing each drop was like a well-placed arrow piercing your armor, that had been hammering down on their heads the whole day, was now a peck on their shoulders, barely even noticeable. It was starting to let up.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. "Nothing to trouble yourself over," he said, catching the slight concern in her voice.

And, realizing his non-existent right hand had unconsciously went up to fix his hood, the loss of his limb still ailing him even when it shouldn't have, Bedivere cursed his lack of self-control yet again. He couldn't relax, deep down in his gut, the sins of what he'd done still swimming in the mirth that was his drowned soul.

It appeared he couldn't completely hide it, either, for Emely adopted a more somber tone. "Reminds you of automatons, doesn't it?" she said, eyes on the men below. "How they always put the same foot down, right-left, forward-back, turn, and all that." Breaking out in a faint smile then, a thin crack than the usual fissure, she shook her head with a soft chuckle. "The well-oiled machine of the Third Reich. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, drawing his raincoat closer around himself. The sleeker fabrics of this era brought recollections of the own sheepskin and wool cloaks of his time, which paled in comparison. Regardless, wrapping himself in their warmth—the fond memories of his youth—he found himself start to relax. To deny Arturia her rightful kingship. With those men—and some women—of whom he shared many struggles, did he stand slightly less rigid. He smiled, just a tad. "Very."

And, what seemed to have become commonplace, he listened to Emely talk. As she rambled on about whatever suited her fancy, he thought more of those he fought beside.

Of Arturia.

When she first became High King, her standard had been little better than a white blanket on a long pole. A sign of a king who had not yet earned his place. To prove his, or—in Arturia's case though the majority did not know it—her, worth, a great showing would have to be made. Of strength, strategy, and all the right qualities needed in a ruler. Most of all, the ruler of all Britannia.

Then, after Vortigern's defeat, after the last Saxons had been driven to the coasts of Britannia's shores, had that white little standard turned into that of a great king's: a large banner of blue and silver. On it was a fearsome dragon, its claws extended and ready to strike, with mouth agape and spewing fire to light enemies aflame. A symbol of power and authority. The Pendragon.

And, then, he thought of Guinevere.

Guinevere, daughter of King Leodegrance of Cameliard, and Queen of Camelot. Two years younger than either he or Arturia, just a girl during those early years, she had been one of the first to join the cause as an honorary Companion. Instrumental in uniting them, if not for her knowledge and stratagem in politics and negotiation, then none of the petty kings—even King Mark—would have given Arturia the benefit of the doubt. Without her, along with Kay, would there be no Camelot. For, also, entrusted to her father had been another of Uther's legacy: the Round Table.

Intelligent, beautiful, and not afraid to speak her mind or intermingle with the men, Guinevere… She…

… _even with your help in bringing to light the misfortunes unseen by her…_

Had meant something.

… _my dear sister will still fail to see that which is right before her eyes…_

More than what she had been wrongly labeled as.

 _Blinded by her chivalry, her belief that kingdom comes before king, her wicked day shall come._

Better than an adulteress or a whore or a witch. Least of all a traitor who—

There was a flash and he spun, seeing Emely standing there with her film camera.

"S-Sorry!" she screeched, taken aback by his sudden reaction, staring at him from behind the bulb attached to it. "You just looked… so… sad. Perfect material… a-and all that."

Bedivere realized then that he was looming over her, his back to the spectacle in the square. A life of constant fighting, of living in unspoken fear of the axe that would come to sever his head as it had done his hand, had given him a speed regarded as inhuman by his peers. If she had been a Saxon, if what held was a weapon instead of a toy, he would have struck her down without hesitation. His blood running cold at the thought, he stepped back and apologized.

Emely's gaze went to her feet. "I… I didn't mean… to…"

She went quiet and he lowered his head. How stupid of him. Letting his emotions get the better of him and almost…

 _Her honor—that righteous pride she holds so close—will be her downfall._

And, head in his hand in despair that night so long ago, after spending its entirety fumbling in frustration with his horse and saddle, had been that familiar voice…

 _"Bedivere?"_ Not quite a whisper, but quiet enough so that intimacy was the only way to hear her words. _"What are you still doing up, so late into the night?"_ The shadow of her small frame in the doorway, caught in the torchlight. _"You should be to bed."_ The soft patter of her bare feet going lightly across the floor, to rest a slender hand on his naked shoulder. _"You're so cold."_ Taking a hold of his right arm, pressing her body into his, pulling the stump to her cheek. _"That's better."_ When he had tried to pull away, not letting him go, sliding her arms over his bare chest. Golden hair, loose around her shoulders, as she nuzzled him and rested her head upon his shoulder, like a pony. _"You're warm now."_ Then, drawing away. _"If you need help, you have to simply but ask. I'll always be there for you."_ And, when he turned to look at her, seeing the dark circles underneath her moistened green eyes.

 _With it, so too shall everything she has sacrificed for crumble into ruin._

Her soft lips suddenly on his. _As, though you act in part as her savior…_ Her naked body, those gentle curves, guiding him along. … _so too will you also be her very undoing._ All reason lost, shoved aside by loneliness. _You are kind, my Griflet._ For… _Far too kind._

… love…

 _And, it is your heart…_

Intertwined in an eternal embrace. … _the undying loyalty to her and nobody else…_ The shudder of her underneath, as they came together as one.

… _that shall doom all you hold dear._

… was an unforgiving thing.

 _"Because I love you," Gwen said._ Hugging him close to her, she smiled tenderly. _"And I always will."_

He still remembered the morning after, when she had kept true to her words and helped him saddle Passelande. Once he was ready, he had twisted back to look down upon her, and. for a moment, seen the innocent young girl she was, instead of the worldly young woman she had turned into, and, eventually, the mature woman she would grow up to be. Thanks to her, he had been able to catch up with Arturia before it had been too late.

"The birds. They're still hanging around," he heard Emely say, after awhile.

He looked up, seeing a couple perched in the arches of the building above their heads, sheltering themselves from the rain. Ravens. Unlike what he'd sensed from last night, these didn't have magecraft coursing through their bodies. Didn't have someone binding them to their will with invisible chains around their necks. There was only one he knew who utilized their keen eyes and sharp tongues… But, trying to get his mind away from the thought of her before he lost himself again, Bedivere surfaced back to the present, hearing Emely now say something about the woman standing a few pillars down from them.

"She looks lonely. Why don't we…" Emely began, but he was already by the woman's side. And, taking one look at her: ivory skin dusted in gold, eyes the shade of spring, long, silver hair reaching over her shoulders… to anyone who saw her she was someone you couldn't keep your gaze from wandering. Tall, back straight, her arms crossed, with a lean figure that denoted her as an athlete, she was nothing short of divine and… to him…

"Archer."

… a quick and deadly fighter worthy of extreme caution.

She was that vile man's Servant, and, it was strange, for her to be here instead of with her Master. At first, he had thought she was keeping an eye on his Master, as last night. Now, he wasn't certain.

The ravens. If who he thought was really controlling them, Bedivere hoped he could strike her down when that time came. But, he didn't want to jump to any conclusions.

"We have to talk."

He needed answers, and didn't want to be proven right.


	7. Chapter 6

**VI**

Hands on her hips, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, striped down to her black collared dress with feet bare, Liesel assessed what remained of the summoning chamber. Now that most of the rubble was cleared away—the only things left being debris that required nothing more than a simple broom to sweep away—she sighed in relief, wiping a grimy hand on her forehead and turning her attention up to the enormous hole in the chamber ceiling.

Sunlight shone down from it, spotlighting the incantation circle that was now permanently seared into the floor. It still steamed, despite being days old, and she watched as Sofine meticulously guided her broom around it, a pile of burnt brooms in the corner of the chamber. Hopefully it would cool down soon—as they only had so many brooms to spare.

Eyes wandering down to the spot where a blackened stain was visible in the incantation circle's center, Liesel frowned. In addition to the summoning chamber, the homunculus had also been damaged.

Acting as a conduit for the pillar of light that was 'the Servant answering the call', Ilseviel had passed out with burns over her entire body from what the Ancestor had called 'a harmless bout of the boy's wrath'. A small price to pay for victory, she said, and, of Ilseviel's burns, one stood out: an ugly crimson brand beneath her right eye. Undoubtedly, a Command Spell. Her three, to be precise. Meaning the ritual had been a success, but, not without consequence, just as she had thought. Which, begged the question: how many of these 'small prices' would they have to pay, before the War's end?

"Angra Mainyu," she said under her breath.

 _Before you stands Angra Mainyu, All the World's Evil, as he truly is._

That night, after hearing those words, Liesel had thought him to be a thing of shadow, disaster, and death like the one who had summoned him, but, she knew now that he was the embodiment of all that was wrong with the world in a very different fashion.

 _Though he may be merely a boy, inside him is a rage rampant and wild._

Hardly older in appearance than Ilseviel herself, he was an unfortunate soul sacrificed by his people for the evil he was said to bore. Chosen as the one to carry all the evil in the world in his heart because of their simpleminded beliefs, he had been cleansed so that they might not suffer their God's wrath, and, as a result, all that remained was a small, pitiful, and empty child who asked one and only thing: _why._

 _He is the Persian god of darkness, eternal destroyer of good, personification and creator of evil, bringer of death and disease. Ahriman, the 'fiendish spirit'. Such a sad thing, what humans do to one another, to ease their troubled minds…_

Though, just because there was no reason to now believe this boy to be a threat, didn't mean there wasn't one. Even now, with the War only little over a week away, there was no doubt in her mind that the other Masters were already making their moves and securing their holds, and it was high time they did the same. The question was, with both their Master and Servant but mere children, how would they go about it?

Bringing a large guard of homunculi to accompany them would only draw unnecessary attention. Alternatively, having only she and Josefine—while they were both trained in the art of combat and able to hold their own solidly enough—were no match for a Servant alone, regardless of the class. Therefore, their best chance was either fool's luck, or a small, special force comprised of competent homunculi who, together, could protect Ilseviel and Avenger. Her shoulders slumped.

If only they had such a force.

"So, then, why not just create one yourself?" the Ancestor said, having come beside her, presence unannounced and equally as uninvited.

Giving the Ancestor a sideways glance as she now often found herself doing to avoid the pull of those eyes, it took all of her inner strength to not let her gaze travel down. "Do you make it a habit to invade the minds of those who show you hospitality, or is that only rarely?"

She heard the Ancestor chuckle, and imagined her smiling eerily. It sent a chill down her spine. "Only those whom I have an interest in."

"Well, whatever you may think or might have seen, simply 'creating one myself' is not an easily accomplished task."

"Oh? Are you so certain? I believe you would be able to do it. The very least you can do, is try."

The Ancestor's words harking back to a time better left forgotten stung her, and, when Liesel felt her eyes move away, she dared to look. Smaller in stature, two full heads' worth to be exact, the Ancestor was no longer an elderly woman ready to embrace death, but, a youth, eager to confront it, skin smooth and not hideously cracked nor white as before, with lips fuller, and eyes even colder still. It was almost comical, if not for the fact that even as she was now, the Ancestor was still capable of decimating entire countries alone if given the incentive to do so.

"As you guessed, the ritual—materials, summoning, and all—had taken a greater toll than I imagined," the Ancestor said, in answer to the unasked question of how and why. "Therefore, to conserve what little I have left, this is the form I have assumed; one that I shed nearly a millenia ago. I think it still suits me quite well. Would you not agree?"

Liesel narrowed her eyes, unamused. "Was your only goal in coming here to irritate me?"

"No need to glare, child."

Not wanting to deal with her any longer, Liesel turned her attention back to Sofine as the girl was trying her hardest not to stumble, trip, or otherwise fall all over herself. The anxiety of that day, that fear of making another punishable mistake, still loomed heavily over her shoulder. She saw from the corner of her eye, the top of the Ancestor's head, as it tilted up, and followed the path of her eyes to where the stained glass portrait of the Grail's conceptualization had once been.

Gathered around it were many ravens, crowded around the one she always observed, and, eying them rather closely, almost as if she could see past their black, feathered bodies of flesh and blood to their souls beneath, the Ancestor let out a short, ugly show of dark bemusement. "Curious creatures, are they not?

"What do you want?" she snapped back, tired of their little game of cat and mouse that they had been playing for the past few days and which had gone on as long as she could stand anymore. Telling Sofine that she had done enough for one day, senting her on her way, Liesel, soon as the girl was gone—pile of brooms and all—willingly met the Ancestor's gaze, and held it. "What is your interest in our affairs? Truly?"

The smile she had imagined, was there in full. "Such a strong, deviant child," the Ancestor said, the black pupils in her irises a deep, dark void. "Justeaze chose well."

At the casual mention of the Lady's name, Liesel's body trembled and she couldn't tell if it was because of her failing functionality, or, the anger she felt for harboring emotions that she shouldn't have been given. Anger that she couldn't quite control, no matter her efforts. Fear, that wouldn't go away and she was ashamed to admit she had. "Answer the question."

"Very well," the Ancestor said, seeming to give a shrug. She broke eye contact, going back to the ravens. "Such lovely creatures…" Then, "I might, in due time, but, right now, I would rather stay here for a little while longer and… observe."

"Observe…?" Liesel's brows furrowed. "Observe what?"

"Why, is that not obvious?"

She scowled. "No, it isn't."

The Ancestor looked back, her eyes seeming to smile, before once again focusing on the ravens. "Do you not think it odd… that they are gathered all within this one place?"

"What?"

She smiled. "You will see soon." With that said, the Ancestor began to disappear, back to the shadows from whence she had first appeared, leaving a whisper of farewell that echoed in Liesel's mind.

 _I wish you well, child. Till next we shall meet…_

Alone with the ravens, without any idea where the Ancestor had wandered off to this time, Liesel was left to wander in her thoughts, lost in those memories best left alone, searching for answers to questions long abandoned, and knowing that she would never find them.

* * *

Now, as the day was coming to a close, Liesel sat at Jubstacheit's desk in his chambers, triple checking the certificates she had finally gotten stamped at the bank the day before. As, though they were isolated in a bounded field and safe from all but the most perceptive of prying eyes, that didn't mean they were exempt from taxation, and, if one, or more, of these were held for seven months, they were entitled to an additional allowance on expenses. If held after thirty-seven, they could be used to pay all taxes at a twelve percent premium, along with collateral. Meaning they wouldn't have to worry about the upkeep of the castle and surrounding property for awhile. With the War already here and all of their resources having went toward it, this was something they sorely needed.

Ignoring Avenger—who hovered by her shoulder and kept asking that one and only thing—counting them out, she would have to turn them in soon, lest they have to dip into the emergency funds. Putting them away for later, her thoughts traveled to the earlier issue of creating a small group of homunculi to accompany them. Images of Sofine clumsily trying to handle a weapon flashed through her mind, and she dismissed them forthwith.

"Create one myself, indeed," she scoffed, echoing the Ancestor's words.

No matter who she chose, none of them—not just Sofine—would be ready by the time the War officially started. She pinched her brow. A hopeless endeavor, surely, but, if there was even the chance it could help to grant the Creators' wish…

In the end, no matter how much she wanted to deny it, the Ancestor's words rung true. She had to at least try. Just as the Lady had lectured them to, and, apparently, the Ancestor had also been present to hear.

 _How can we know if something is to succeed, if we never strive to do so? If not this day, then there is always the next, and the day after, so long as we have a reason to continue to see His wish as an actuality. So, then, too, should we keep attempting fate. The wish He had, and the dream His own have passed on to me, and now onto you and yours, so long as you believe it so, then so too will it continue to exist. The love that we all must share._

Though, despite Justeaze's words, it was not so easy a task, as the ability to move heaven and earth was within the Age that no longer existed, and would never be attainable. Not by them, nor any other, in a new Age where the feats of myths and legend were all but gone. It was nigh impossible, but, once again…

The least she could do, was try.

Letting out a groan, she leaned back in Jubstacheit's chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, and, gazing up at the chandelier that hung in the center of the room, Liesel found herself drifting off to earlier days, reminiscing about those quiet evenings spent with the Lady in the castle gardens. Back to a time when there was no War, just a gathering of like minded individuals—magi, homunculi, and ordinary people alike—who simply wanted the world to be a better place. A safer place.

She had just closed her eyes when Sofine stumbled through the doors, hunched over and out of breath. "L… Lady… Lady Liesel!" she panted, clutching her chest, one hand on the edge of Jubstacheit's desk as she took in large breaths of air. "There's… an emergency!"

Liesel waited until her breathing settled. "What is it?"

The girl pointed back, in the direction of the main hall. "There are g-guests!"

"Guests? What guests?" She didn't recall scheduling anything for the past several months, least of all today, on account of the War. Especially now, so close to its official start.

"I-I don't know! But… but Lord Einzbern is with them!"

If Jubstacheit was with them, then maybe she had just forgotten there were to be guests. Not to mention, scheduling it so late. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time, but, even so, she still would have felt them cross the bounded field at some point. Been able track their progress, even. Yet, within the past few hours, nothing. Which, was near impossible for even the most—

"We're going there, _now_!" she commanded, already out of her seat and on her way out the door. She stopped and waited. "Sofine!" The girl was busy fixing the chair, having been knocked over. Wasting time, when it might already be too late.

"R-right!"

Taking the lead, Liesel stormed down the hall with Avenger trailing silently behind them, asking for the whereabouts of Josefine and Ilseviel.

The girl fumbled with her words as she struggled to keep pace. "With them!"

"How many?"

"Three!"

How could she not have sensed three intruders, let alone one?! Of course, she already knew the answer, but… "Sofine?" They were moving too slow.

"Yes?"

"Go faster."

* * *

She, Sofine, and Avenger arrived at the main entrance to the castle shortly thereafter, where down below six people stood. Of the six, only two she didn't recognize. One was flamboyantly dressed man in purple and blue, while, the other, at his side, could be nothing else, but, a Servant. His Servant, to be precise, and it only took one look to know both were just as horrible existences as the man she had secretly hoped would never enter here again.

Makiri Zolgen, now calling himself Zouken Matou, waited behind the man and his Servant, one hand over the other on his cane. A cane that, too, shared a sad history with Einzberns, same as the man himself.

Opposite them was Jubstacheit, with Josefine and Ilseviel behind.

As their words traveled up to the stairs, Liesel listened as Sofine gave an overview of what had happened before she arrived.

The flamboyantly dressed man's name was Darnic Yggdmillennia, a magus., and his Servant, Lancer, one of the three strongest. The other two were Archer and Saber, and of Archer, he said, she and her Master were also a part of their company. As, the two of them, he continued, along with Rider and his Master, had formed an alliance; this alliance being the prime reason for their being here. That is, to defeat a foe greater than any of them could ever hope to alone.

"The only way to defeat this foe, is with our combined strength," the magus went on. "Therefore, my partner,"—he gestured at Makiri, an ugly mockery of the beautiful man he once had been —"and I, would like to offer a proposition. We would like to—"

Jubstacheit raised a hand, asking for silence. Then, he spoke, his voice neutral, "You come unannounced, and expect to be received warmly. I will overlook this transgression, for now, if only to hear what you have to say. This foe you speak of…"

The magus smiled. "Why, a Servant, of course." His eyes went briefly to Josefine and Ilseviel. "Caster, specifically. Once Caster and their Master are defeated, we can go about settling the matter of the War as normal. Do we have an arrangement?"

Jubstacheit appeared to weight the decision, but, before he even opened his mouth to offer a response, Josefine stepped in.

"You fool," Liesel said underneath her breath, tensing.

"Leave! Both of you, at once!" her counterpart demanded. "Oh, and, who do we have here…?" The magus leaned forward, observing them more closely, as if he hadn't already been. Ilseviel, in particular. "I knew the Einzberns were famed for their homunculi, but this…" She saw Ilseviel make a face, flinching away from him when he touched her hair, practically breathing down her neck.

Josefine stopped him before he could do anything further, grabbing his wrist and putting herself between him and Ilseviel.

"Leave. Now," she snapped.

"My apologies, miss. I meant no harm." Still smiling, the magus took a few moments to gather himself, and soon as he had, bowed and when she unhanded him offered his hand to her.

When Josefine didn't accept, the magus drew it back smoothly, running the hand through his long, extravagantly maintained, blue-black hair. His eyes, golden-brown, slitted as that of a snake's, shifted back to Jubstacheit.

"Do we have your support, Lord Einzbern?"

Josefine answered for him. "No."

And, the seemingly perfect smile on the magus's face, twitched. "Excuse me?"

"We decline," Josefine repeated, sternly.

His face darkened. "Oh, I see your _doll_ has grown quite fond of speaking out of turn," he remarked. "If you would allow me…"

Without a second thought, he blasted Josefine in the chest and sent her tumbling across the marble floor, then walked up and pressed down on her chest. There was a snap.

And, all Liesel could do, was watch. She was unable to move a muscle as he proceeded to grind down, making certain Josefine felt each and every twist—lest she act and have the War start here.

Hand cupped underneath Ilseviel's chin, his smile was now a smirk. "Such a lovely thing," he said.

Ilseviel was too frightened to move, looking at him with big, saucery eyes.

Makiri was laughing hoarsely at the sight.

"G... get away from her..!" someone roared, and, to her surprise, it was Sofine.

She had slipped away unnoticed, and was now holding a croaking Josefine up to help her breath.

The magus eyed her curiously, as she stared him down, then simply chuckled, letting go of Ilseviel. "I believe that is enough for one night," he said, as he and Makiri went to leave, saying farewell. "It has been a pleasure... And, the offer is always open, so long as Caster remains a threat." Then, they were gone.

"Makiri…" Liesel found whispering after them. "What happened to you?"

"L-Lady Liesel! Lady Josefine is…!"

But, with no time to dwell, Liesel rushed to her counterpart's side. She had to act quickly. Though, before she could start mending her rips Josefine spat blood at her, telling her they should have killed the magus as soon as he approached Ilseviel instead of letting him walk away. To which, she responded, would have resulted in unnecessary death.

Either the magus would have ended their lives, or they his, and the one to ultimately suffer in the end would be Jubsteicht and the Creators' wish, as they plunged themselves straight into a War they currently had no means of fighting effectively in.

And, she doubted, they would, even when it did finally come.

"Ilsev... iel..." Josefine wheezed, face contorted as she struggled to stand. Liesel set her back down, telling her not to move, that she would only make it worse, but, her counterpart still tried to do so. She managed to sit up and coughed violently.

"Josefine! Don't you—"

She was ignored as, helped to her feet by Sofine, Josefine slowly made her way over to the child. After picking her up with great difficulty, she gave a hate-filled glance in Jubstacheit's direction and lowered her head as she started walking away.

Liesel looked back to their Lord as he stared blankly at something only he could see: the realization of his dream. What she saw, and what Josefine walked away from, was the consequence of his desperation. Is this what the Ancestor spoke of?

As Josefine passed them and took to the stairs, Liesel followed her. "Where are you taking her?" There was no answer. She frowned, watching as Josefine labored to climb even the first few and, with a sigh, told her to put the child down. "Let me help."

Now going up together, the child between them with Sofine in tow, she asked the same question as before.

"To... her... room," was the rasping reply, as Josefine heaved, wincing with each breath and every step. Ilseviel, too, appeared in worse shape than before, and, as they came to the homunculi's room, Avenger manifested in a red swirl of rage beside the door.

"Why?"

Assisting Josefine in setting Ilseviel gently on her bed and closing the door behind them, she left her still coughing counterpart to stay by the child's side. Once outside, again, Avenger asked the same question.

"Why?"

 _It is such a strange thing… This thing she called 'love'. It is something I still do not fully comprehend—even after all these many centuries—but…_

Next to him, fists clenched and head down, trembling not from her lameness but anger for the first time, Sofine spoke to the carpeted floor. "Why didn't you help, Lady Liesel?"

… _. from what I have learned in that time, is that…_

And, this time, did she give an answer.

… _there is nothing as precious nor punishing a gift._

"Because love... is a dangerous thing."


	8. Chapter 7

**VII**

 **HACHIŌJI, TOKYO, JAPAN, 1939, a week and half before the 3rd Holy Grail War.**

In the stillness of a calm morning, a gentle, welcomed breeze blew through Anniina Edelfelt's hair as she gazed out at the city of Hachiōji below. Surrounded on three sides by mountains, it was bereft of the clutter, noise, and pollution that plagued those further west.

Brushing aside brunette curls dangling down her forehead like the many paper lanterns lit outside the tiny, slant-roofed houses of the neighborhood, a light fog from a late night shower had rolled in within the last several hours, making the lanterns seem like will-o'-wisps in the gloom. There were thousands of them, and if she were still the little girl who dreamed of fairies and griffons, she would have believed that beneath them laid the buried treasure and sacred tombs of her ancestors.

But, that was before she and her sister had been sent to a foreign land far from their own to study the arcane arts; before they had become proper magi. A land where modernization thrived, and the tales of old died. Where the little girl she used to be had died along with them.

And now, they were someplace else, even farther away, to participate in a war neither of them had even heard of until recently. The Holy Grail War, they called it, of which she and her sister were the first of their family to do so. It was the only thing that mattered, the one thing that would secure her family's place in the world of magi and assert their hold over the mysteries of the arcane, or so they had been told.

Watching the train that always came thundering down through the neighbor from the south, carrying shipments of supplies needed for the other 'great war' that was on the tip of everyone's tongues, filling the sky with a thick, black, and ugly smog, she was glad that the battlefield—their battlefield—was far removed from the ongoing circumstances of the world at large. The concerns of the nations fighting in this second 'war to end all wars' meant little to her. She hardly knew anything of the first, other than stories, and, speaking of stories, Anniina had heard also stories of the atrocity that was the last Grail War.

She knew they were being sent straight into the jaws of death, and had half a mind to abandon it. Trade in her gems for a brush and follow the same path as her great-grandfather. Strive to become successful like he was, and live happily ever after without fear of her family's disappointment.

Akin to committing suicide, the thought was something so shameful and cowardly that it would be better to just slip off the ledge and plummet to her death here and now than live with the humiliation. But, she didn't want the first thing for Annaliisa to see in the morning to be her corpse, splattered across the dirt street below.

She laughed bitterly.

Almost as if he were there to stop her, her Servant materialized, standing upon the very spot she might have decided to throw herself if she were to actually go through with the selfish act and leave her twin to fight alone. One of the most prominent heroes from her homeland, he was little more than a shade of his true self, and, catching the tail end of the train as it disappeared into the mountains, Anniina didn't want to be reminded of herself everytime she looked upon his visage.

Looking up at the mountains now, somewhere on it sat the ruins of the castle said to be haunted by the ghosts of its fallen defenders and the enemies that had slain them. It was said that horses could be heard galloping, soldiers' screams echoing, and a clashing of arms reverberating throughout the forest during the early hours of morning, 2 to 3 o'clock. The witching hour, when the veil between the land of dead and the land of living was at its thinnest. _Yūrei_ , what the local's word for them was. Apparitions.

But, as with the lanterns these claims were nothing more than the imagination of the ignorant, and if there were any real truth to them, she would have noticed something by now. Especially the raising of the dead. But, again, there were no such signs of any evil occurrences. Therefore, these sounds were likely the result of leylines—ancient earth energies that amplified magecraft underneath the ground—found in every corner of the world. Rarely were they plentiful enough to hold abundant sources of power, but, sometimes—such as the case with these 'apparitions'—they were known to cause hallucinations. Places of nature, especially. The forest—or the mountains themselves—and not the castle, was the real culprit here.

Even so, it wouldn't do any harm to investigate into the matter further, but unless the battlefield brought them there it wasn't worth the time better spent doing final preparations in order to come out victorious in the War, and, resting her head on her arms as she brought her knees to her chest, Anniina thought of what her real wish would be if she did manage to make it so far as to have it grant whatever she desired.

Perched on the second floor balcony of the mansion their parents had commissioned for them years in advance, perilously close to its edge, what she wanted was what any normal older sibling would: for her sister to be safe.

That no harm should come to her, so long as she lived.

In Annaliisa's place would she willingly give her own life to see the future of the Edelfelt bloodline succeeded, and, perhaps, to be remembered not as a failure, but, a savior.

That was all she could hope for, when it came down to it.

Today they were to meet with the new supervisor from the Holy Church that was to preside over the War because the outcome of the Second had proved that magi couldn't be trusted to govern themselves.

The Holy Church and the Magi Association were already on less than friendly terms, and now they were intruding upon a ritual solely designed for magi, by magi, and, while she didn't mind the intrusion, her sister did. Annaliisa was thick-headed, quick-tempered, and not afraid to voice her discontent with the things in life that she could do without. If this supervisor and she were to meet it would cause trouble and widen the rift between the Church and Association in the process. Furthermore, not without mentioning, their chances of winning would also be at risk. So, not only would they spark conflict with the two organizations, but also their parents, if they ended up losing because of it.

And she would rather not face the consequences of either.

* * *

A few hours later, she still stood at the same spot, looking at the sun reaching over the mountains and bathing the city in its light, washing it clean and freeing it momentarily from the shackles of industry, as everything stopped so that everyone might pray. Pray for those souls lost fighting over the summer, as they wallowed in darkness forever. For those that were still fighting, as the conflict, while at a standstill at the moment, would no doubt continue into the month. Paper lanterns were replaced with incense, and the bitter fragrance of the candles as they burned wafted up to the mansion, carried by the wind.

 _The God Izanagi no Mikoto_

 _With all the respect from the depth of our hearts_

 _We ask that they hear us, such as the spirit that hears our intent_

 _With sharpened ears, together with the spirits of the Sky and the Land_

 _Take the badness, disasters, and sins and purify all._

 _For expansion of our souls._

 _And the fullfillment of your will._

"What ails you, my other little maiden fair?" her sister's Servant, the real Saber, wholly intact in body and mind, unlike hers, said. Standing behind her, sly as a cat, he purred in her ear. "Is it my other half. How he is not the same as I?" It tickled, and her neck tingled, his hair brushing her skin, when he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, holding her tight; snug and warm in his burly embrace. "Does this help to soothe such a sorry sight?"

She took his hand in hers, and squeezed. "Yes, it does." Then, abruptly let go. "Now unhand me."

He did, slowly. "Very well." Light-footed, he slunk back and chuckled with a grin. "Quite resistant to my charms, as only the very best women should be." She could still feel the heat from his body on her back, and when she turned to look upon him, it only grew hotter. A result of his geis, enticing men and women alike to his charming wooes. A spell she had properly protected herself against, and, that, by the lingering aroma of his nightly escapades, many others in the time since his summoning, hadn't.

Seeing his eyes twinkle behind tousled brown hair speckled grey, their mesmerizing green like the sea upon the shore, his features were strong and defined, face chiseled from the earth and body cast in stone. He was nothing short of handsome, and, as he said his farewells, leaving her with his lesser half, she couldn't help but wonder why her Saber was so vastly different.

Where Annaliisa's Saber was tall, hers was short. Where her Saber was well-built, hers was pathetically so. Where hers was merry, Anniina's was gloomy. Where he was striking, hers was dull. Her sister's Servant was the embodiment of his legend, while hers… wasn't. They were supposed to be one and the same, but…

She turned from the ledge, now seeing her Servant by the balcony entrance.

Where her sister's Servant was charming, hers was uninviting.

He stood there awkward and stiff, and when she asked what he wanted, the blackened broadsword across his back, naked and plain, rusty, spoke for him, informing her that her sister had woken up and was already waiting for her so that they may go meet the Overseer. It had been a shock when she had first summoned him, for him to be mute and his weapon to be his mouthpiece, but, now it was something she was convinced had to do with her Servant's pathetic state. As to what, the broadsword had declined to elaborate on.

"It would be within your best interest not to tarry long, little lamp," it said.

Mark her words, whatever it was, she would find out sooner or later. Even if she had to threaten it over a blacksmith's melting pot. For, she knew, it could mean the difference between attaining her wish, and not.

* * *

"Finally, you're here!" Annaliisa said, scarf bundled around her neck, rubbing her mittened hands together in the cold. She wore a light coat, half-buttoned. She was sopping wet. Her hair, golden-blonde, normally curled, hung straight down past her shoulders, damp. "Just look at this! These clothes are so...! And, my hair is…!" She held up a clump of wet and twisted ends. "And it's all his fault!" Kicking her Servant, her Saber just laughed and rubbed her head, making it even worse. "Stop it, damn you!"

"Ah! What's the matter, my little maiden fair?"

"You, obviously," the broadsword said.

"Surely not I? Why, it was the puddle's fault!"

"Argh! Forget it!" Annaliisa screamed, angrily stomping off down the road. "Let's just go and get this over with! Come on, Anni!" Following her as she carved a burning path to the church, ignoring the beauty of the country in late summer, if anything, her steaming temper would dry her out in little to no time at all.

"Quite the fire inside of that one. A very sought after quality when she becomes a bride, some day soon," the broadsword remarked, as they walked along, sakura trees swaying above their heads, cherry blossoms falling around them, their pink petals covering the path around them.

"Be quiet, you," Anniina shot back. As if she would ever allow that; to be married off to a suitor of her parents' choosing, like some prized possession.

At seventeen years of age, they were at their peak to be wed to the most desirable of them. It was a tradition that both of them could look forward to, but, if she could help it, then her sister's would be a long ways off…

"And, you, yourself, my little lamp, are—"

She tossed one look back, and it fell silent. "That's better."

… and no _damned_ sword was going to tell her otherwise.

* * *

Before long, still catching curious stares from the country's citizens traveling the road beside them months after their arrival, many of whom were awe-struck at the presence of not one, but four, foreigners, traveling together, they arrived at the church, where a man in the black cloth of the Church stood waiting at the entrance, an inviting smile upon his face. As they approached, he bowed respectively.

"Welcome, Lady Edelfelts. It's a pleasure that we finally make acquaintances. My name is Risei Kotomine, and I am the designated Overseer for what they are calling this Third Holy Grail War." He opened the door. "After you."

"As it should be." Annaliisa shouldered past him, her Saber going in straight after, apologizing for his Master's behavior as he went.

"And same to you," Anniina said.

"Thank you, ma'am," the man replied, closing the door and re-lighting candles on his way up to his podium.

The church was small, barely large enough to fit twenty people. With five people, it already felt cramped, but, unbeknownst to them, there were two other guests here, as well, for a total of seven. Eying them, one a boy that appeared to be around their age, the other a woman who was no doubt fairly older, they could none other be a Master and his Servant—or, a Master and her Servant. Though, Anniina was inclined to think more the former, than the latter. And, just the same, so too were they studying them closely—the woman, especially. On the other hand, the boy seemed to be sizing them up, smirking. Mockingly so.

Kotomine must have caught the animosity rising in the room, so he cleared his throat and introduced them. "Yes, my apologies. I had forgotten to inform you, but since all of you happened to be here at the same time, I have decided to host one meeting, rather than two separately. As such, Lady Edelfelts and Servants, if you will, please meet Lord Tohsaka and his. Lord Tohsaka and Servant, if you will, please meet the Lady Edelfelts and theirs." He clapped his hands together, dispersing it from the room.

The boy was quick to offer his hand to her sister, but, at such a gesture—undoubtedly at such a poor introduction, not even mentioning the fame of their family, how they were the first greatest in all of Finland—Annaliisa scoffed, lifting her nose at the boy and his Servant. "Don't approach me, you r—"

"Hello, there!" her Saber said, waving a hand at them, interrupting what could very well have been the first blow of the War.

"Likewise," the boy's Servant replied. Their eyes locked, but, whatever moment they shared, passed with not a thought as they rightly ignored one another immediately after. The woman then moved on to her. "And to you, as well."

Anniina nodded, but said nothing in return. For some strange reason, she felt no need to. Was compelled, not to. She had already shielded herself from any and all outside influences—otherwise, again, Annaliisa's Servant would have added her to to his repertoire already—so then… why couldn't she speak back?

Noticing her putting up more barriers between them and checking the integrity of those she already had, the Servant giggled harmlessly. "Oh, I assure you, my dear, I have no tricks up my sleeves by which to sway you. So, there is no need to be so cautious," she informed, cracking a smile. "At least, not for some time to come." She broke eye contact and turned her attention back to the Overseer, passing over her own failure of a Servant. As to be expected, Anniina supposed, staring at the woman more closely. It was then that she embarrassingly realized the reason for her speechlessness, finding herself flustered.

Figure curvaceous beneath dark clothing that clung rather loosely from her person, caught in the light of the candles, and light blue eyes like the sky above with braided hair blacker than midnight, Anniina had been inadvertently captivated because of her haunting beauty. Combined with the Servant staring at her the way she had been, and she felt, still was, it made Anniina feel as though she were a stranger in her own body. Like the woman saw and could see something vicariously through her, and that she was communicating with whatever it was. It was very unsettling, but, also so very... _alluring_ … at the same time.

And, as the Overseer started speaking again, her Servant came closer, the broadsword speaking into her ear. "It would be wise to watch this one at all times," it whispered.

It didn't have to tell her that twice. Just what, Anniina wondered, touching her breast and feeling how fast her heart beat, had their parents gotten them involved in?

"As you all are very well aware, the Holy Church has appointed me to preside over this Third Holy Grail War and to see that nothing unfortunate happens that would result in a mass loss of life, as the Second had. Master Tohsaka, I believe you know full well what I am referring to, but, as I understand it this is the first time the Edelfelt family of magi have been a part of something such as this. Therefore, if you would allow me to explain the reasoning behind my presence here to them, I would kindly ask that you and your Servant relieve yourselves for the time being..."

"You may, Overseer," Tohsaka said. Turning to leave, he called for his Servant to follow after. But, she stayed.

"I, also, have a desire to know," his Servant interrupted. "If that is permissible, Master?" She was asking his approval, yet Anniina felt that this Servant of Tohsaka's was not so easily obedient. Rather, it appeared the other way around.

"Is it, Overseer?"

"I see no problem," Kotomine replied. "Ultimately, it is up to the Lady Edelfelts."

"Who cares! I just want to get this o—mhhmp!" Annaliisa's outburst was covered by her Servant's hand, as he again apologized for her brash behavior. "Let go of me!" she managed to huff after a short struggle.

"As you say, my little maiden fair." When her Saber drew away his hand it trickled red.

"We also have no qualms about the matter. Please, continue," Anniina hastily said with a gesture for him to do so. And, why was it when she and Tohsaka's Servant briefly made eye contact when the woman looked over to offer her thanks by way of a friendly nod, there was a faint hint of a smirk? An almost devious crook, in her smile?

Waiting long enough for any tension to settle—and once Tohsaka had seen himself out—Kotomine began anew, "Sixty years ago, the event known to us as the Second Holy Grail War occurred…"

He paused momentarily, mulling over his words.

"Yes, to call it a war would be nothing short of accurate. Nobody, save for those involved, knows what exactly transpired during that time, but, for what I have been told it was utterly gruesome. Originally a formal gathering where all seven Servants were summoned, the participants swiftly turned it into a massacre with no regard for the lives around them and nothing of the global repercussions their actions would bring. Or, perhaps, that was the intention all along. As, years later, one of the largest conflicts in human history, as a direct result, shook the world because of it.

Just so, it was 'The Great War' of 1914 . And, now, it appears we are about to be plunged into a second. While it might be too late to stop the storm that is inevitably to come, the least we can do is make certain that a third never sees fruition. _That_ is my reason for being here.

And, for the sake of preventing magi from murdering one another in the streets with no heed for the consequences, the Holy Church has hereby intervened and I hope that you both understand: while this may be your Third, we would not like one of our own."

"A justifiable reason as any," Tohsaka's Servant said. "Though, is it not because the Holy Church wants to obtain the holy chalice for themselves, as well? By sneaking it from under the nose of those participating, they might wish this inevitable second war averted. Or, you."

At this, the Overseer smiled. "Very observant. While those above me would like to think this 'Holy Grail' to be the same that the Lord drank from, they are merely observers in a game that I am the moderator of. I take my orders from them, not my actions though there are certainly rules already set in place that I must abide by, but, to answer your curiosity: no, I have no such intentions. I am simply a priest, here to prevent a future conflict that each passing day nears its boiling point." With that, he looked at the two of them and their Servants. "For your sake's, too."

* * *

 **A / N: Re-posting this chapter as I've combed through the narrative of the previous chapters and hopefully made it more easily readable.**


	9. Chapter 8

**VIII**

Wilhelm rubbed his eyes. There was an ache in his back. He peered around, light from the sun outside his window pouring in. It was early morning. He had fallen asleep here again. The second in a row.

Days worth of neglected paperwork was piled up on the corner of his desk, needing to be sent off today as they were to officially ship out to the site of operation in a few days, and he groaned. He gave the man who never left his side a look, then asked him to fetch Meier, so they could get the paperwork done and over with so he didn't have to see it anymore.

When the man left to do so, Wilhelm took a random handful from the pile and began stamping, long past the point of caring what they said. Most of what he wanted to know had been cycled out during the first few days, the rest being just an endless stream of miscellaneous garbage. More propaganda, and even further reason to oppose what his beloved country had become. To bring it back from the dark road, where the men under his command walked. Not that it was possible for a lowly officer to do much, or even anything at, really, but…

Brushing the crimson mark on his hand, maybe if he wished for it, then… Klara would… He stopped himself. No, no… the past was the past.

There was no changing it.

Speaking of bad dreams, he could still see fragments of the last nightmare in his head, several nights ago, and tried to expel them from his mind as he continuing to stamp, ink-stained fingers pressing away.

After the first one, he had chalked it up to age and experience coming back to haunt him. That the barracks were part of the problem. Though, no matter where he slept nor what he did, they kept coming back, different every single time; each one more intensive than the last. These nightmares of his were becoming all the more real as time went on, and to keep himself from seeing them any further, he mulled all that man had told him of this… Holy Grail War, as it was officially called.

The past several days, whenever the opportunity presented itself, Wilhelm would inquire about whatever it was. Real or fake, wish or no wish, to his chagrin he had to understand it to the best of his capabilities if he were to stop Yggdmillennia and the Ahnenerbe. Already, even in sparse detail, what he learned was more than an old soldier's mind could comprehend.

Fourteen participants. Seven Masters, seven Servants. Grouped in pairs. Each Servant was assigned a class, best suited to match their strengths, of which there were also seven. His Servant—as the man had no qualms in devaluing himself as merely that—had been Marshall to King Arthur, and given the class of 'Rider' due to his knowledge of and expertise in mounted warfare. So he said.

As for the other six, the ghastly man at Yggdmillennia's side and that woman at the meeting, specifically, were two of them. Which ones, he had no idea, and he snorted, glancing at his watch.

Usually, he and Meier would be here by now. They were late. Not that he particularly minded.

Leaning forward in his chair, Wilhelm put his fingers together and pressed them into his forehead. Looking down at his desk, he contemplated what to do, now that he was armed with this new information. What next course of action to take.

If he ordered it, this man, Bedivere, would even eliminate Yggdmillennia, but, while it was tempting to cut off the head, the body would die, and the body was what he was trying to protect. Not to mention, all eyes would immediately shift to him if any foul play was suspected, and that was something he couldn't have. Furthermore, who was to say another madman wouldn't just assume his place? That other one who was at the meeting and who seemed even more of a bastard than Yggdmillennia… he shuddered at the thought of having _him_ in charge. Calling him a creature was a kindness.

He sighed, and gazed up at the ceiling. The day was long, and he felt as if he had only just scratched the surface of this whole affair. It was all superficial nonsense, he kept telling himself, but, as time went on, and the more he became aware of, the more his grip on the world as he knew it faltered.

… _The world as he knew it._

He chuckled, then.

It was always changing, faster than simpler men could keep up. All of this was only further proof of that. If only Klara were here.

* * *

"What do you mean, they're already there?" Wilhelm said, looking up from the paperwork he had missed which Meier so kindly took it upon himself to inform him of, stamp hovering mid press. There were only a few of them left, he was sick of having to see them any longer, and just when he thought he could be done with his headache another came to take its place.

"The message said that the Obersturmbannführer and his guest, Mr. Makiri, were already in Japan. Presumably, in negotiation with the local government."

"That's it?"

Meier nodded. "Yes, sir."

Setting his stamp down, Wilhelm dismissed the Leutnant and stretched the skin above his brow in exasperation, grumbling to him about the secret agendas of that man. Both of them, and what it might be, before rising from his chair to peer out the window at the men and women that he had to bring home at all costs. With Yggdmillennia and… Mr. Makiri… already in the country of their destination, he suspected that what time left they had to prepare would be pushed forward in favor of securing ground upon the site that was to be the battlefield for this Holy Grail War that man—his Servant, face twisting in sheer disgust at having to refer to him as such, thereby acknowledging that all this nonsense wasn't so nonsensical after all—had warned would also undoubtedly take some of their lives during its course. Of course, in war, casualties were expected on both sides. If he was going to stop Yggdmillennia and that other man and whatever their plans were, if he were to against such monsters as these Servants and claim the Holy Grail, there was going to be several.

He just hoped the majority weren't his.

* * *

That night, tossing and turning uncomfortable for the first time since the cramped, muddy, and blood-soaked, shell-ridden and bullet-eaten ground of the trenches, Wilhelm dreamt of another field, littered with bodies and the ripe stench of death whereupon, atop a hill in its center, were two figures. A haze red and orange sun burning behind them, he had no control over his body like all the other times, his legs carrying him closer as he saw one of them fall while the other, now alone, staggered to stay upright.

" _Arthur!_ " someone shouted, their voice distant yet right beside him, coming from within himself. The voice was not his own, but, he had realized after several of these fever dreams—these devilish nightmares of a time nearly as barbaric as what he witnessed during The Great War—that the voice was that man's. This Bedivere's and, seemingly unable to hear it, this voice that wasn't his, the lone figure planted their sword at their feet, leaned against it, and crumbled to their knees.

He called their name again and hastened to climb the hill, only to slip and tumble back down and sink in the mud below. When he emerged, he grasped a hand outstretched. Lifted to his feet, looking into the hard eyes of a dark-skinned man in leather, the scene had abruptly changed. The field of bodies was now a city on fire, and the hill a great palace in devastation and ruin. All around, people were screaming and running away from it, the smell of charred flesh and burnt wood heavy in the air, and, above, the bleak sky was full of smoke and ash though the red sun remained.

It was utter chaos, as the dark-skinned man began to led him through it, the words he spoke barely heard, but, at that point, whatever had taken ahold of him distorted, hazing out of focus, and Wilhelm woke from this new dream in a hot sweat.

Unbuttoning his shirt, getting up from his bunk, not even bothering to slid on his slippers, he pattered outside. The moon, a half-crescent, was bright, illuminating the quiet midnight in front of him as he let the cold, wet air hit the scars upon his chest. Once his breathing went back to normal, he sat down from a sudden, but, expected pain in his backside. Even if he were still a soldier, a man of the military, he was older now and it was obviously starting to take its toll. Chuckling to himself after sitting there for a short while, he wasn't even past fifty yet.

Oh, if only Klara could see what became of him.

He frowned, noticing a raven atop a building—the same lonely one from several days prior, probably a straggler from that flock during the night of the meeting—and glanced down at his hand where his Command Spells were. It twitched. Moving his fingers, gazing into the raven's eyes, both he and it had one thing in common: being left behind. Just then, out of nowhere, another bird, a hawk, dove for it from somewhere high above. The raven fled. Though before it could get away, it was struck dead and Wilhelm watched its plummet, and the subsequent quiet thud as its black body hit the ground.

"I would not have looked at it for much longer, if I were you."

Appearing beside him, that woman from the meeting, the third Servant, walked forward, her silver hair shimmering under the moonlight. In her hand was a raised bow, and as she lowered it, the woman held out her arm. The hawk perched itself on her wrist, and she whispered softly to it, then it was gone.

Wilhelm blinked.

He hadn't even see it fly off. It had just simply… vanished into thin air.

He blinked again, and rubbed his eyes the second time that day for good measure. No, surely, it had. It must've. He was just more tired than he thought.

"A familiar," the woman—the Servant—said, back still turned to him.

He opened his mouth to say something, but, no words came when she then looked back, her beauty spectrally haunting and taking his breath from his lungs.

"I've been hunting them since the night of Berserker's summoning. That was the last."

"... a what?"

"A familiar, Sire. " His Servant repeated, standing behind him. "A magus-controlled puppet."

"Puppet?" His forehead wrinkled in confusion. That raven had definitely been alive. "That wasn't a puppet."

"A living one," Rider corrected. He went past him and his fellow Servant, to the raven. "Forced against its will, bound to serve." He bend down and cradled it in his arms. "By Caster's magecraft."

"Caster? Another Servant?"

Coming back, Rider's face was deep with sorrow. "Yes." The raven's blood smearing his gauntlets and breastplate, his Servant held it close to his heart, teeth clenched. "And this confirms it." Revealing the wound where that woman's arrow had hit, was the signs of something seared into its flesh by flame. Wilhelm waited and when he looked at him with now wet, reddened eyes. In that moment, he feared what more the man had to say, bracing himself. "She is the greatest magus of my era and Camelot's worst foe, Arthur Pendragon's sister: Morgana le Faye." The pain upon his face appeared even greater than the previous night and he held the raven closer still. "To defeat her will require a mighty host."

Just when he believed things couldn't worse.

Or further headache-inducing.

Sitting down, Wilhelm suddenly felt tired and held up a hand for Rider to leave him be. Eyes on the spot where the raven had fallen dead upon, he watched the woman crouch down and touch. Raising a brow, he asked what she was doing.

"Is it no concern of yours, _magi_ ," she answered haughtily.

"I'm no such thing."

"Yes. You're even lower than that: a pawn to play in the war ahead."

"What did you…?!" Wilhelm flushed red with anger. "I'm not one of Yggdmillennia's pawns, either! For _you_ even to say that is…!" He took a bold step toward her. When he got close enough to reach out and touch her, if not for her bow now aimed squarely at his chest with an arrow notched, he wouldn't be so hesitant to continue—only for Rider to get between them.

"Thank you for your help, Archer, but, it is done. Go back to your Master. Tell him his cooperation is appreciated."

The two Servants stared one another down intensely until the woman finally conceded and lowered her bow with a look of disdain so clearly visible Wilhelm could practically see the murderous intent within her eyes. Like a flame, they burned into his mind, smothered his senses, and turned his thoughts to cinder: images of a grand hall filled with warriors reveling in the scourge of battle, all drowning in a crimson sea, were projected to his mind and he felt his gut moil at the sheer brutality of what he briefly witnessed. Holding a hand to his mouth, he swallowed and all but turned away from the nightmare of it.

As the woman averted her gaze, saying something about the weaknesses of lesser men, disappearing in a haze of red sparks shortly thereafter, he also had the distinct, sinking feeling that this one hadn't been a simple dream, either.

"Sire!"

"I… I'm fine…" he said, staying the man who was still so quick to rush to his aid. Falling back toward his office, a clammy hand over his face, he ordered him to stop following him. "Leave. Me. Be." he snapped, using his other hand to steady himself in the doorway as the man yet again moved to help and after shutting the door behind him and drawing the blinds, enveloping himself in the dark, eyes downcast in silence, looking into that woman's eyes had brought forth those memories no sane man would wish to remember.

The ugly stench and bile and destructive toil and toll the battlefield left in its wake forever scaring those who survived to breath the next day. He ran his three shaken, grief-stricken fingers over the one he'd received at Somme, still hearing the whistles blowing in his ears as they were ordered into No Man's Land, and the bellows of his comrades—those young men under his command—dying one, two, three at a time, dropping like flies to the bullets that for by some divine intervention had only whizzed by him. The mortars that came howling in, burying their corpses in earth and shrapnel, and how he earned the scar upon his forehead.

Wilhelm sat at his desk and clasped his hands together, trying his best to take control of himself once again.

It was some time before he was able to.


	10. Servant Info: Rider

**SERVANT CLASS: RIDER**

Name: Bedivere

Title(s): The Bold, The King's Marshall

Other classes: Saber, Lancer

Gender: Male

Alignment: Lawful Good

Place of Origin: Britain

* * *

 **Parameters:**

Strength: C+ (default), A (when using only his left hand in combat)

Endurance: B

Agility: A

Mana: C

Luck: B

Noble Phantasm: B

* * *

 **Class Skill(s):**

Riding (A): One can ride all animals and any vehicles with exceptional expertise, save for beasts of phantasmal, divine, and dragon origin.

\- As a child, Rider was especially fond of horses. In addition to having an authority equal to that of the King, he was in charge of the cavalry and any and all decisions regarding them. It can only be surmised that he also knew all there is to on how to handle them, also.

\- Rider's personal mount is a mighty white warhorse named Passelande. Enchanted by the Lady of the Lady herself, originally one of The Once And Future's King's steeds, it was gifted to him for his service in uniting the British Isles.

Magic Resistance (B): Cancel spells with a chant below three verses. Even if targeted by High-Thaumaturgy and Greater Rituals, it is difficult for a Servant to be affected.

* * *

 **Personal Skill(s):**

Military Tactics (B): Tactical knowledge used not for one-on-one combat, but, rather, battles where many are mobilized.

\- Entrusted with the stability kingdom while the king was away, Rider was well-versed in how to manage a country and lead its armies.

Unto The End (A+): The Servant's connection with their Master strengthens each passing moment. Parameters gradually increase the longer they are together. As a consequence, it is difficult for the Servant to be controlled by Command Spells.

\- A long-time and precious friend to the king, Rider was his first knight and most loyal companion right until the very end. At the end, despite their history together, it took Rider three attempts for his to finally obey the last request of his king, risking treason and death against the symbol which embodied the kingdom and the hopes and dreams of all its people. To atone for this, when that end came shortly thereafter, he stayed behind ever waiting for him to return, abandoning all material possessions and leading a simpler, quieter life in prayer.

Monsterslayer (C): A skill which grants an advantage over monsters and Servants with monstrous qualities.

\- Rider fought and slew the giant of Mont Saint Michel, but had help from others in order to do so. Therefore, his rank in this is less than impressive compared to those others of his time even though the deed itself was underneath any under circumstance.

*It is possible for the rank to increase if paired together with another possessing the same skill.

* * *

 **Noble Phantasm(s):**

The Passing Of A Legend (B, Self): Whatever enemy Noble Phantasm Rider comes into contact with has the chance to be sealed. Alternatively, if the Noble Phantasm is that of an ally, its effectiveness increases. In addition, whether belonging to friend or foe, as long as Rider has seen or used it or something close to it in his lifetime, it is possible for another's Noble Phantasm to become his own for a brief duration of time.

\- A Noble Phantasm born from being the carrier of the holy sword of The Once and Future King in her final moments, and as sole witness to the passing of an age along with it.


End file.
